


The Half-Life of Love

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Hacking, M/M, Manipulative Mycroft, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obsessive Sherlock, Pining, Possessive Sherlock, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-07-27 15:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16221614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: The half-life of love is forever. — Junot Diaz“Maybe we met too soon or at the wrong time, under the wrong circumstances,” said John.Sherlock shrugged. “Hypothesis Contrary to Fact: none of these 'what ifs' happened, so it’s all pointless speculation. We did, in fact, meet at a specific time and place.”





	1. Regrets

October, 2005

“What’s up, mate?” Lestrade asked. He gave Anderson and Donovan a warning look. _Back off._

Sherlock had been standing like a statue for several minutes, staring at the floor. He wasn’t doing his usual thing: walking around muttering to himself, crawling over every surface with his pocket lens in hand, or questioning the intelligence of everyone in the room. He didn’t appear to be doing much of anything.

Even standing and staring might not have alarmed Lestrade if he hadn’t noticed the tears. Not a flood of tears, but just enough standing in those pale eyes to make them glitter.

He took a step closer. “You seem… distracted.”

“Mm.” Sherlock took a deep breath and looked over at the DI. “Distracted. Yes. A bit.” He blinked rapidly for a moment, scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles, and sighed. “I’m fine.”

Then he was back in action, combing the scene for clues, offering his observations, and insulting Anderson, but not with his usual vigour. Done, he nodded at Lestrade and left, raising the tape so he could duck underneath.

Lestrade told Donovan to finish up, then ran after Sherlock.

“I’ll give you a ride home,” he said, hurrying to keep up with the long strides. “Let me buy you some lunch.”

“Not necessary.”

“I haven’t seen much of you for months, mate. Just thought we could catch up a bit.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, turning and studying the DI as if he was trying to construct a conclusion out of random clues. He gave a deep sigh, one founded on several years of acquaintance. “Yes, you’re right. I’ll take that ride. Mrs Hudson said she would leave some sandwiches for me, if you don’t mind sharing. And tea, of course.”

In the car, he gave Lestrade the address.

“You’ve moved since the last time I went looking for you,” the DI commented.

Sherlock nodded. “Much nicer flat, larger, in a better area.”

221B Baker Street was a Victorian terrace, solid brick front opening onto the street, a basement apartment, a first floor flat, and a second floor, where Sherlock lived. The flat itself seemed to have survived from the late nineteenth century with few cosmetic improvements. The wall paper was a ghastly pattern, black on what might have once been creamy white, but since had yellowed. Books spilled out of an ancient, dark wood bookcase. The rugs were oriental, worn but still serviceable, and mismatched furniture completed the Bohemian look.

“Nice,” said Lestrade, looking around while Sherlock made tea.

He’d known Sherlock for three years now, since he’d started showing up at crime scenes, a kid with an attitude and supernatural observation skills. He knew of his drug troubles, had even saved his life once, just over a year ago. He’d mentored him, talked to him like a son, and gone out on a limb for him with his superiors more than once. And the man was still something of a mystery to him.

At least he seemed to be staying away from the drugs. Clearly, though, something was wrong. He had never seen Sherlock cry. He was always as self-contained as an oyster, as unemotional as a machine.

A framed picture on the mantelpiece caught his attention. Two boys, one of which was clearly Sherlock, the other a younger, smaller boy, blond and blue-eyed, with the sweet face of a kid hasn’t yet figured out what a fucked-up place the world can be. They were leaning against a Jaguar convertible, Sherlock with his arm draped possessively around the smaller boy’s shoulders. Wearing narrow jeans, black t-shirt, and a leather jacket, he held a cigarette between his fingers. His hair tumbled over his forehead, a bit less restrained than he currently wore his curls. Cool and unsmiling, he regarded the camera with indifference. The boy, wearing faded jeans and a navy jumper, was smiling, not at the camera, but up at Sherlock.

Sherlock brought two mugs of tea. Noticing Lestrade’s interest in the picture, he smiled grimly. “Which of those boys would you let your daughter date?”

Lestrade laughed. “All you need is some pomade and a pack of fags rolled up in your sleeve. You look like every dad’s nightmare. No, I guess I’d send you packing if you showed up on my doorstep asking for my daughter. Who’s the other boy?”

“That’s John.” Sherlock was silent for a moment, looking at the picture.

“A school mate?”

Sherlock nodded. “We were… he was my boyfriend.” He took the picture in his hands. “Did you ever look at an old picture of yourself and realise that you were an idiot?”

“Yeah, it’s painful, innit? It’s like they say: _youth is wasted on the young._ ” He saw tears shining in Sherlock’s eyes again. “How old were you?”

“I was seventeen, he was sixteen when we met.”

“Pretty young,” Lestrade commented, taking another look at sixteen-year-old John. The kid looked about twelve, Lestrade thought. _Late bloomer,_ he decided, as boys often are. “I’ve got a sixteen-year-old daughter. We haven’t allowed her to date anyone yet. Think I’ll make her wait until she’s in her thirties.” He gave a short laugh.

“Does she have her own phone?” Sherlock asked. “Does she use a computer? If so, she is not as innocent as you think.”

This wasn’t a happy thought. Lestrade made a mental note to check Chelsea’s phone. And her MySpace page. Or FaceBook. Or whatever kids were doing these days.

“This was before online social sites were commonplace, however,” Sherlock said. “John was certainly an innocent, in many ways. And I…” He sighed, lowered his voice. “I was probably a predator.”

“A predator?” Though Lestrade didn’t have much trouble imagining Sherlock taking advantage of someone, the word _predator_ implied something much worse. “A bit young for predation at seventeen,” he said, not convinced that it couldn’t be true. He’d known kids that age who had raped and murdered. Though he’d never seen any sign that Sherlock was a sociopath, he sometimes he wondered about the man’s anti-social tendencies. One thing he never had trouble imagining: what people were capable of versus what they claimed to be.

“I don’t deny that I have deficiencies,” Sherlock said. “Most of which I’ve learned to compensate for. John was good for me, kept me right. Unfortunately, I didn’t take care of him as I should have. I was a terrible boyfriend.”

Lestrade paused a couple beats for this to sink in. “Do you ever hear from him?”

“Not in a long time.” He said this with such sorrow that it made Lestrade give him a sharp look. This sentimental Sherlock Holmes was someone he did not know.

“You should look him up. If you’ve lost touch, hey, you’ve got the Met at your disposal. We find missing people all the time.”

“Your success rate is far from impressive. Anyway, I know where he is. He lives here, in London.”

Lestrade watched Sherlock’s face as he gazed at the photo. “You have regrets.”

“Yes.”

“You should call him. What’s the worst that can happen?”

Sherlock sighed and put the picture back in its place. “The worst has already happened.”


	2. Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where it began. Sherlock deduces. And experiments.
> 
> Warning: These boys are 16 and 17. Rather stalkerish behaviour on Sherlock’s part. This is about as explicit as it gets.

1994

John Watson arrived at The Linden School one week after classes began — the obviously awkward new kid. A skinny boy with shaggy blond hair and dark blue eyes, he looked like he still watched cartoons and collected action men. Glasses too big for his kid face, stiff jeans a size too big, and checked shirts picked out by his mother, a new X-Men backpack and off-brand trainers. Scholarship kid, not used to mingling with the posh or the goths. Wide-eyed, eager to please his teachers, hoping to avoid being picked on. Still waiting for a growth spurt that probably would disappoint, he looked about twelve. His voice hadn’t finished changing, unexpectedly getting caught between registers in the middle of a word. When girls talked to him, he turned bright red and stammered.

Within a week he’d acquired a nickname — Rabbit — suggested by the little nose twitches he made when he was on the listening end of a conversation. _Allergies, perhaps, or just an unconscious habit_ , Sherlock decided. Rabbit wasn’t the sort of nickname most boys would like to carry, but John just grinned when he heard it. A silly tag, a badge of acceptance. He liked to belong. He joined the photography club, the anime club, and the AV club. A nerd, of course.

He had an unusually mobile face that seemed to reveal every thought that passed between his ears. A sweet, ingenuous face; a naive, hesitant smile. Embarrassment, surprise, confusion, fear — all passed over his features like the shadows of swift-moving clouds under a changing sky.

Sherlock watched him run down the hall, schedule in one hand, backpack bouncing, his free hand pushing his glasses up on his nose. _What a pretty little idiot_.

He wanted to take the idiot apart, grab that sweet face and lick the innocence off of it. Innocence offended Sherlock. Who had a right to be innocent in such a world? Even he, a privileged toff, hadn’t been allowed any innocence. Most people just closed their eyes to what they didn’t want to see, but Sherlock’s eyes were made to observe everything, and to understand what it all meant. It was a curse, sometimes, to understand.

 

Sherlock was a good student when he wanted to be, which, to be honest, wasn't that often. _Capable of doing better_ was the comment from every teacher, on every report card.

When he thought about it, something he generally avoided doing, he wondered if maybe it was better to be stupid than simply disinterested. People accepted stupidity readily enough: _Incapable of doing better_. _Sorry, your son is just stupid. He can’t learn, so we won’t make him._

Being capable, but unwilling, on the other hand, seemed to make everyone angry, offended that he was _wasting his life_ — which would have been a far more honest comment to see on his report card than _capable of doing better._

He was seventeen and didn’t know why he was wasting his life. It ought to have been a good life — wealthy parents, top-flight schools, a car, a motorcycle… whatever he wanted, he got, simply in exchange for promising he would try harder. Short-lived promises he never intended to keep.

Parents were so easy to manipulate, so bad at seeing what was wrong.

They often had little chats with him, usually when he came in late, smelling of weed. These conversations focused on such abstractions as _motivation_ and _goals_ while hovering gently around more concrete issues like _drugs_ and _sex_. Their boy was not like other boys, his mother insisted; he was brilliant. He just needed understanding and time to find his way in life. Brilliance did not proceed like ordinary intelligence; it made its own painful way through the world. Brilliance slept when it wanted to, couldn’t follow a schedule or meet deadlines, and sometimes needed to curse more than people wanted to hear. His mother believed this fervently and, unlike most boys whose mothers think they are brilliant, Sherlock actually was. This didn't mean that anyone understood a clear path for that brilliance. Sherlock certainly didn’t.

He was going to end up nowhere, his father grumbled, if he didn’t knuckle down and put forth more effort. He infuriated his well-meaning parents, raising their hopes on one report card and crashing them into the ground on the next. University was expected, then law or medicine, or possibly a government post, like his brother had. Unfortunately, the best laid expectations of parents are soon dashed on the rocks of rebellion. With each year that they moved Sherlock to a new school with fresh opportunities, doors were slamming shut without him ever having looked inside.

Sherlock didn’t care if he ended up nowhere. It would be better than ending up living his parents’ lives — a marriage without love, boring careers, and smarmy friends who cheated on their spouses and pretended their unhappy children were perfect. Sherlock wanted no part of _perfect_. He turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction.

He dressed in all black — tight jeans, black shirt, and a leather jacket — without the chains or metal studs. A goth who thought goths were ridiculous and pretentious — who set the standard of alienation for other goths. He hated jewellery, had no piercings or tattoos. When his facial hair came in, he grew a soul patch, then shaved it off. Then he grew sideburns. As people began to imitate him, he went clean-shaven. Sometimes he wore eyeliner and black nail polish, not to be like the goths, who were idiots for the most part, but because it drove his father to the brink of apoplexy. _No son of mine…_

Other than his icy blue eyes, which observed everything, his hair — lush, dark, and curly — was his best asset. He let it fall in wild ringlets to his collar; later, he would let it grow to his shoulders, turn it into dreadlocks. His mother would cry and beg him to cut it, or at least wash it, _for God’s sake_.

Sherlock didn’t believe in God.

He rebelled against his father’s expectations, not hiding the drugs and the alcohol. He rebelled against his mother’s hopes with profanity and facial hair. He rebelled against the curriculum, insisting that nobody needed to know about the solar system or who was prime minister, refusing to study because _it’s all meaningless_. He rebelled against his peers, dismissing the costumes and the cliques and the social game. He rebelled against the very cosmos for giving him a life that was both painful and boring, his pain and boredom alleviated only by his rebellion. Every single thing he could push against was part of that rebellion.

 

John was a gymnast; people said he might even make the Olympic team in 1996 or 2000, once his body finished puberty. Sherlock watched him practice sometimes, his small body spinning on the pommel horse and his wiry arms hoisting himself up on the bars. His best event, though, was floor exercises. He could flip himself into the air like a ninja.

Sherlock thought about what he would do to that tight little body one day.

For several weeks, he just watched him in the halls, in the dining hall, and in the gym. He observed the nervous hustle that he brought to all his transit, the wary smile he gave to the kids he recognised. A group of girls surrounded him in the hall one day, giggling and trying to see who could make him blush first. _Seven seconds._

And he saw how John looked back at him when he caught his eye. A fly in the spider’s web, a deer in the headlights. Rabbit: eyes wide, nose twitching.

When Sherlock looked at him, he deduced: _Father dead_. _Has an older sister, not as smart or talented, who bullies him. He feels guilty about her, about caving in and doing her chores, about going to a better school, even about imagining a better future than she will have. His mother stopped cooking and doing the laundry a long time ago. Once her abusive husband was gone, she simply gave up. He’s embarrassed about all of it — the shabby, untidy house, his mother’s indifference (and the alcohol she absent-mindedly pours and drinks), his sister’s self-destructive tantrums, and his own sudden elevation to a posh school. He tries to imagine a life where he isn’t held captive to someone’s expectations for him. But rebellion is a difficult manoeuvre to execute. He’s supposed to save his family, be the one who pulls out of orbit and flies into the future. So much is riding on him, it scares him._

Sherlock saw the dark blue eyes follow him, asking a silent question and fearing the answer.

_John Watson imagines something cool and aloof that he can never have. Or something hot and pulsing that simultaneously scares and ignites him._

_Dreams of playing lead guitar in a grunge band, long hair falling over his eyes, the hair that his mum keeps trimming above his ears. Dreams of driving a motorcycle so fast that he can barely breathe, but will ride the bicycle he got for his thirteenth birthday until he saves up enough for a used car._

_Imagines someone watching him, wanting him._

 

There was a room a flight up, overlooking the gymnasium, where they stored retired equipment and old uniforms. Sherlock sometimes went there to smoke; the mustiness hid the smell of his cigarettes. From the small window, he could look down and watch the the gymnastics team working out. That was where he found John most afternoons, practicing on the pommel horse or the parallel bars while the coach sat reading the newspaper.

Sherlock observed.

John on the mat, practicing flips. Over and over, trying to stick the landing perfectly. Coach closing the paper finally, dismissing him with a wave, heading into his office. John’s small body gleaming with sweat, panting with exertion, last one to head into the locker room.

 

Sherlock followed him late one afternoon. The locker room was empty.

He heard the water start, waited a minute, and then walked towards the shower.

 _It’s an experiment,_ Sherlock reminded himself. Experiments require patience. Minute, precisely calculated steps towards an outcome. Hypothesis, analysis, conclusion.

There were eight shower heads in the area, no individual stalls. John, the only one there, had his back to the entrance and was rubbing shampoo into his scalp, humming tunelessly. Sherlock watched as he let the water run over his head, the shampoo lather streaming down his body. Seeing him naked for the first time, he could see just how defined John’s muscles were. He imagined standing behind John, feeling his arse, all slippery and wet. He shivered.

John shook the water out of his hair, and grabbed a bar of soap. He lathered his neck, underarms and crotch, then rotated his body under the spray, rinsing himself. It was at that point he noticed he was being watched.

He froze.

Sherlock simply stared at him. Then he let his eyes travel down his chest and rest on his groin. _No little boy, then_.

Sherlock smiled. The cock gave a twitch. _Commence measurements._

He took several slow steps forward, still watching to see the boy’s reaction. After thirty seconds, the cock was beginning to swell. _Initial hypothesis confirmed, continue gathering data._

Reaching behind the boy, he shut off the water. John licked his lips. Sherlock could hear him drawing quick, shallow breaths as he backed against the wall. His eyes were dilated like black holes.

Sherlock crouched down before him, continuing to observe the cock, which was at full attention now. He didn’t touch, but breathed on it.

The boy groaned. Sherlock exhaled again, slowly, letting his lips linger near the head of the cock without touching it. A drop appeared on the slit. The boy groaned again.

_New Hypothesis: maybe the boy would ejaculate without being touched at all._

_Data: rapid breathing, flushed skin, penis secreting pre-ejaculatory fluid._

He looked up and saw the dark eyes watching him. He extended his tongue towards the head of the cock.

“Please,” the boy whispered.

He withdrew his tongue, breathed on the cock again. He brought his tongue towards it again, miming the motions without touching. He breathed again, then brought his tongue so close that he could almost taste the semen that was dripping from the slit.

He saw it coming. The boy’s legs began to tremble, his entire body tensed. Sherlock moved out of the way, watched the waves of the orgasm possess the small body until he was gasping and spent.

_Result: Success._

_Conclusion: ?_

John leaned against the shower wall, his eyes closed, panting.

Sherlock stood and studied the boy’s face, flushed with a pinkness that spread down his chest. “It’s an experiment,” he said.

“Okay,” John whispered back. He opened his eyes and licked his lips, still breathing heavily. “Do you need more data?”

Leaning in, Sherlock kissed the perfect mouth until he felt the cock stir again. “You’re my boy.”

Still gasping, John whispered, “Do you mean, like, _boyfriend_?”

“I mean,” he said, “you’re mine.”


	3. A Human Construct

People saw them together, the baby-faced boy trailing after the defiant loner, talking earnestly to him. Sherlock noticed their glances, read what was behind those looks.

He hated people who looked at his golden boy. In truth, he didn’t like anyone, even the pretenders who sidled up to him, so cool and cynical, as if they were rebels too. Jock or goth, hippy or hipster, gamer or geek, stoner or skater, he dismissed everyone with the same cold wit. He was a bit scary, this brilliant man-child with no ambitions. For the most part, people avoided him. When he passed people in the halls or on the paths between the dorm and the academic buildings, a few muttered insults: _Freak. Psycho._ They were easy to ignore.

They lived in a dormitory full of boys. Though he’d asked for a single, Sherlock’s parents thought he needed to socialise more, so they insisted on a double. His roommate was a posh and unambitious boy named Andrew. John also had a roommate, a sullen and studious boy named Mark who spent all his free time in the library. Sherlock hung out in John’s room, helping him with his homework and distracting him by pulling him onto the bed and refusing to let him up.

“You can’t study all the time, Rabbit,” he said.

John wriggled, trying to free himself, but only half-heartedly. “I’m not as smart as you. I have to work for my grades. If I don’t, they’ll kick me out of here.”

Sherlock took John’s glasses off and set them on the desk. “They won’t kick you out.” He slid his hand down John’s trousers and grabbed his arse. “You still have a lot to learn.”

“Who’s going to teach me?” John asked breathlessly.

“I am,” he breathed. “And you’re going to love it.”

 

John Watson, little innocent that he was, nevertheless had a filthy mouth. It made Sherlock laugh out loud every time he worked multiple profanities into one sentence. Then John would look perplexed. “What?”

_An unfortunate byproduct of his upbringing_ , Sherlock decided. Public school boys (and men) understood the value of a well placed _damn_ , or _bloody_ , or even an occasional _fuck_ , but when a person (John, for example) used these words in multiples, without being aware of it, that meant that they didn't understand that these were powerful, magic words. He didn’t understand that simple words had to power to reveal his family history — his father who had never graduated, who worked in a factory and drank his pay check and finally drove his car into oncoming traffic and died; his mother who had gotten pregnant before getting married and cleaned other people’s houses to feed her children; his sister who drank and cursed and dressed like a boy.

For Sherlock, product of an upperclass childhood, words like _fuck_ were best applied sparingly, and only in certain company. Mummy didn’t like it when he swore, and knowing when not to use _language like that_ was one of the few concessions he was willing to make to his mother. Even he, a rebel who broke his mother’s heart repeatedly with his inappropriate behaviour, would not inflict those words on her unless it was absolutely necessary.

John’s mother apparently did not have any language scruples, or she had kept them to herself. John’s father had certainly been the teacher. _This is how real men talk._

Paradoxically, John’s proficiency with dirty words did not stop his embarrassment at using these words in the proper context. 

“Touch me,” he panted when Sherlock had snogged him into the pillows.

“Where?” Sherlock asked innocently.

“You know,” John said.

“Say it.”

“Touch my… my…” he grabbed Sherlock's hand and moved it to his crotch. “There.”

“Your leg?” Sherlock grabbed his thigh. “Your hip? Your elbow?”

John giggled. “No, touch my…” His voice dropped to a whisper, “…my _cock_.”

“Someday,” Sherlock told him, “I'm going to put my _cock_ into your pretty little _cunt_ and _fuck_ you until your filthy little mouth pours out every profanity you've ever learned.”

John’s eyes were wide, his mouth a perfect O. “Boys don't have a… you know.”

“It's all right, John. I'm not going to give you detention for saying _cunt_. In your _arse_ , then. I know you’ve got one of those.”

He felt John blushing against his chest. “Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he said. “Do you have to be so fucking crude?”

 

“Come here, you little idiot.” Sherlock pulled him into his lap. They were in one of the alcoves in the library. John was looking for sources for his research paper on the Enlightenment. Sherlock was commenting that the Enlightenment didn’t really enlighten anyone, and most of the _enlightened_ philosophers and statesmen had owned slaves and basically treated all poor people like property. He transitioned into a kiss that made John forget how to think.

“Moral imperative,” he murmured against John’s lips. “You have a moral duty to assist me in achieving happiness.” He ran his hand over John’s chin and cheek, rubbed John’s upper lip with his index finger. “A bit happening here, Bunny.” His own beard was dark and stubbly, almost as thick as a man’s. John’s was still feathery, too light to be seen by the human eye. “You might need to shave soon.”

“Coach says I’m in a growth spurt.” This was obvious. With the boy on his lap, Sherlock could feel the difference in John’s weight and height. He’d watched him practice, and had observed that he’d lost his sense of balance, was unable to land a simple front aerial without a misstep.

John chewed his lower lip. “He says… says I might not…”

The Olympics had become a long shot, Sherlock surmised.

The boy did not give up easily, Sherlock had to admit. He could almost see the lines of the man he might become. Shorter than average, he guessed, and muscular. His character, though, was what interested Sherlock the most. Patient, determined, self-depreciating. Sherlock himself was none of these.

_It’s an experiment_ , he reminded himself. More data needed: _how long will it take John Watson to figure out what I am_? _How many times can I fuck him before he does?_

 

“Did you ever date a girl?” John asked him. They were lying on the bed. John was pretending to read _The Canterbury Tales_. Sherlock was stretched out next to him, drawing circles on John’s back with his finger, studying the little twitches and shudders he could evoke from John’s skin.

At the question, the circling stopped. “What year is this, John?”

“It’s 1995.”

“Oh. I thought we might have gone through a time warp.”

John rolled over and looked at him. “A time warp? Sherlock, why would you think that?”

“In the year 1995, which is apparently the year we both inhabit, people do not _date._ Girls do not wait breathlessly by the phone for boys to call, boys do not give girls their class rings or varsity jackets, and nobody _goes steady_. No primitive rituals such as these for the immature human of 1995,” he intoned as if he were narrating a show about baboons in their natural habitat. “In the late twentieth century, young humans can be observed hanging out, hooking up, and having actual sex.”

John giggled. “Okay, have you ever _hooked up_ with a girl?”

Now Sherlock was doing that thing — deducing him. “You’re attracted to girls.”

“Well, sort of.” John was wearing his adorable confused look. “I mean, no — I just wondered…”

Sherlock sat up and looked down at him. “I have had sexual experiences, as you know. I’ve never hidden that from you.”

John’s face shuttered. “Forget it,” he said, turning back to _The Wife of Bath’s Tale_.

Sherlock began to quote from memory: ‘ _Kis me,’ quod she, ‘we be no lenger wrothe; For, by my trouthe, I wol be to yow bothe, This is to seyn, ye, bothe fair and good._

The part of Sherlock that was used to keeping people at a distance pointed out that he was just using John. It wasn’t a relationship. He didn’t do relationships. He certainly didn’t want a boyfriend or anything so mundane. It wasn’t even all about fucking. He simply wanted to possess John, to own every inch of him.

When they had called him a _sociopath_ , this might have been what they meant.

The reality was different, though. Possession was not so easy. In the moments when he was most driven by his desire to own John Watson, he’d begun to suspect that the boy actually owned him.

No. Sherlock Holmes didn’t have a heart. Nothing to possess. When he was seven, the doctor had said it. Mummy had cried and argued and finally accepted it. You can’t teach a sociopath to love. Mummy’s heart was broken. Sherlock didn’t have one.

“What are you doing back there?” John was asking. He was still trying to read his assignment, doing his best to ignore what Sherlock was doing to his back.

“Experimenting,” he said. With a felt pen, Sherlock wrote across John’s lower back: _Property of Sherlock Holmes._

 

“I can’t believe it’s already Christmas holiday,” John said. “Time flies.”

Their breath came out in icy puffs as they walked across the quad towards the dormitory, heading from their last exam. The results wouldn’t be in for a few days, but Sherlock was certain he’d done well. Maybe this year, he’d surprise his parents.

“Time doesn’t fly, John,” he said. “It has no physical reality capable of movement. It’s simply a human construct whose purpose is to measure change.”

“You’re a very literal person, you know,” John replied. He was smiling. “Maybe time isn’t real, but change is.”

Sherlock pulled the door open and held it for John. His roommate had left that morning, but he still needed to pack. John, having already packed his case, sat on the bed and watched. “How will your family spend the holiday?”

Sherlock shrugged and looked at the case he’d partly filled with pants and shirts. He still had a lot of clothing at home, so there wasn’t much to pack. “Mummy will have her charity projects. And her ‘do.’ That’s when she invites boring people over and I hide in my room. Daddy will hide behind his paper and tell me I’m wasting my life. My brother will come home for two days for the express purpose of annoying me. He has budgeted his time carefully for maximum annoyance.”

“You never said you had a brother,” John replied. “I guess you don’t get along.”

“Boring,” said Sherlock. With a pang, he realised that in a few minutes the dorm would be closing, and he would drive home and not see John for two whole weeks.

Something had definitely changed between them over the term. He’d tried to define it, without success. He saw the obvious physical changes in John, who had added about two inches to his height since the year began. They spent a lot of time together, giving him many opportunities to observe the boy, but he found it hard to draw any real conclusions.

The data was confusing, conflicting: John Watson was boring, but Sherlock never felt bored with him. He wasn’t brilliant, but he sometimes said things that reoriented Sherlock’s brain and let him see everything differently. People liked John. Girls flirted with him and boys joked with him. John got along with everyone, and when Sherlock saw him laughing and talking with anyone, male or female, something inside of him wanted to break things. He wondered if this was jealousy.

“Here.” John thrust a small package at him. “It’s for Christmas.” He looked a bit embarrassed. “Don’t— don’t open it until then.”

Sherlock immediately began to rip off the paper.

“I said—” John rolled his eyes and huffed. “It’s just… It’s dumb. I wanted to get you something, but I didn’t have much to spend.”

Sherlock looked at the small item in his hand. A prism. He looked at John’s face, red and distressed and full of something Sherlock couldn’t identify.

The dark eyes went down to the floor, studying his trainers. “Happy Christmas,” he said. “It’s just— I wanted to give you something.”

Sherlock didn't do presents because that would require him to think about what other people might want. He didn't care what most people would want. His parents bought himthings in exchange for good behaviour or improved grades or simply for not fucking up. At Christmas and on his birthday, these things came wrapped in colourful paper.

He was surprised to register that he cared what John wanted.

John had wrapped his present in tissue paper. There was a card: _to Sherlock, from John Watson. Happy Christmas._

He smiled at the inscription _from John Watson._ As if there were another John he might be confused with. As if anyone else would give Sherlock a present. A present from a friend was unprecedented. A friend was something he’d never had.

He held the prism up to the light, watched as it split the beam into a rainbow. He thought about those light waves going through the glass, spilling all the colours hidden inside them. He knew the math that explained it, but it still seemed like magic.

“It's lovely,” he said at last. It wasn't something he needed, and he hadn't known he wanted it until he saw it. “Thank you.”

John smiled. Seeing this, Sherlock took full advantage, pulled John to his feet and pressed their lips together until they both came up for air.

“My conductor of light,” he whispered into John’s hair.

 

Christmas holiday was barely tolerable. Sherlock had avoided his family as much as possible, but his mother’s forceful cheerfulness and insistence on family togetherness took all the joy out of hiding in his room. He’d hooked up his modem to the phone line and spent most of his time online talking with idiots on TOTSE, until she discovered that he’d tied up the phone line for three days straight and run up the bill to astronomical levels. When she threatened to confiscate his computer, he gave in and watched the telly instead. He was rude to his mother’s guests, ignored his father, snarked at his brother. He thought of driving to Glasgow to see John. When his mother confiscated his car keys, he had to give up that idea.

 

He returned to school and threw his suitcase onto his bed, bounded up the stairs to John’s room. If the sullen roommate hadn’t yet returned, they might manage a decent snog, maybe even some groping.

John opened at his knock. He had a bruise under his left eye, obviously the result of a strong, if unsteady, right hook.

Sherlock traced the bruise lightly with one finger. He could almost make out the knuckles. “What happened?” 

John shrugged. “Disagreement with my stepdad.”

“You fought him?” Admiration and incredulity battled for possession of his face.

John looked up at him, hands on his hips.“Yeah, I did.”

He frowned down at the boy. “You're an idiot. He's—”

“Not so tough,” John finished. He gave a tight smile. “Bullies never are as big as they look.” A brave sentiment, but Sherlock had seen pictures of his family. John Watson was evidently much bigger than he physically appeared if he could successfully confront a man twice his size.

The bruise was turning green and yellow. Five days, Sherlock estimated. “What did you disagree about?”

John gave another shrug and a half eye-roll. “My sister.”

“Your sister.” He felt as if he was dragging information out of John. “Your stepdad was fighting with your sister?”

John shifted uncomfortably. “She decided the holidays would be a good time to come out. Stayed out all night, came home, and announced she had a girlfriend. My stepdad hit her a few times, ended up throwing her out. He came after me because I defended her.”

_Gay sister. Well, sort of saw that coming._ He thought for a few minutes. Stepfather obviously didn’t like the stepchildren. A bully, John had said. An abuser.

“And when will you come out?” he asked. What he expected was a cautious statement of intention to whisper in mum’s ear and leave stepdad out of the loop.

John frowned. “I’m not gay.”

_Unexpected_. Sherlock laughed out loud. “You _have_ noticed that we’re both boys, haven’t you? And that we’ve been spending a lot of time in each other’s pants?”

“But that’s not— we’re not—” John flushed. “I mean… We’re boys, yeah…”

Like many conversations with John, this one consisted mostly of incomplete sentences.

“It’s just—” John said. “We’re not— I mean, it’s not really sex.”

“Spare me,” Sherlock huffed. “If you want to pretend this is something else, I can’t stop you. But at least be honest with yourself. You enjoy what we do.” He was uncomfortable with how quickly the conversation had become adversarial, how angry he felt. He closed in on John, glaring down at him. “Admit it. You like it.”

“Sherlock,” John said. He chewed his lip. His nose twitched. “I’m sixteen years old. My sister says she’s a lesbian. I don’t know what I am.”

“Then you ought to review the evidence,” Sherlock replied. “I don’t know what goes on inside your head, but if one judges by actions — the visible evidence — we are, in fact, gay.”

“It’s normal,” said John. “It’s… I mean, boys... It doesn’t mean I’m gay.”

Apparently, John had thought about it. Maybe he’d done research. Sherlock didn’t know. He’d done his own research— for weeks now— and it was clear to him that John was gay. All evidence points to…

“You’re a coward,” Sherlock said. He felt angry at John’s refusal to acknowledge what they’d been for _weeks_ now. “You can’t even admit the possibility that you are attracted to other boys.”

“I'm not attracted to _other_ boys,” he said. “I’m attracted to you. And how about you? You're a coward, too, pretending… I don't know what you're pretending or why. You hide behind this… this image— scary, goth— whatever. That’s not who you are, Sherlock, and you know it. Why don't _you_ come out, be who you really are?”

“It's nobody's business,” he snapped. _It’s what a sociopath does— pretend._

“Exactly,” said John, folding his arms defiantly. “So why do you let those boys insult you? You should stand up for yourself, but you just ignore them. Yeah, I’ve heard the things they say. You shouldn’t put up with that.”

“There's no point in trying to reason with idiots,” Sherlock said. “What I am is none of their business. And if you're not really gay, John, you might have mentioned that at some point.”

“I'm attracted to you,” John replied softly. “But maybe I'm attracted to girls as well. I’m not… I don't… this isn’t…”

Sherlock turned away. “Then go find yourself a girl, John. I will not hold you back. Show the world that you’re not gay.”

Afterwards, he wished he hadn’t pushed him so far. He’d seen the signs. John was teetering on the edge, and his sister’s actions were making him reconsider his own sexuality. It was a stupid argument, one Sherlock knew he was destined to lose.

If he forced John to choose a side, the easiest choice would be to play straight. He hadn’t thought of it in those terms before. He’d always made a point of being on no side, being an anomaly conforming to nobody’s expectations. Gay and straight were labels, and he abhorred labels.

It wasn’t John’s refusal to label himself that angered him, he decided. It was the fear that maybe John didn’t belong to him and would ultimately leave him. 

 

John was going out with a girl. He’d seen them holding hands, heard people talking about it. Her name was Sarah, one of the theatre girls in John’s class. _Rather plain_ , thought Sherlock. Long mouse-brown hair, no makeup, boy jeans and always wearing one of John’s ugly jumpers. It made him ill to see them together.

Being alone had once been the norm for Sherlock. In fact, being with another person, having a boyfriend — these were alien concepts to him. _Alone is what I have. Alone protects me. No heart._

He’d once tried to kiss another boy and been punched. He found another who kissed back, and a third who did other things, but then he’d been kicked out of that school and had to start over at Linden. Rather than deal with people’s expectations, he became an anomaly. It was easier to stand outside of society than to try and figure out how it all worked. He learned about sex, not from his parents or brother or any of the psychologists who’d examined him, but from other boys and the internet.

And then he’d found John. Perfect, pure little John with the beautifully filthy mouth.

He fumed. _A phase_. That’s all it had been. No matter. He could be alone again. He didn’t care what John did.

He didn’t understand why his chest hurt so badly. _Hearts don’t actually break, you know. They are simply pumps, organs whose function is to circulate blood._ The ancients had, for some reason, believed that the heart was the seat of human emotion. But emotions were simply chemistry— neurotransmitters in the brain which, when released, caused behavioural changes, enhancing the chances of an organism’s survival.

But Sherlock’s brain had always been broken. That’s what all the doctors said to Mummy. They prescribed chemicals.

His roommate, Andrew, offered him weed. Andrew wasn’t gay, but he hadn’t any fixed opinions on other people. Just a stoner. _Live and let live_. Sherlock found that smoking not only let him forget, but dulled him so much that he just didn’t care. He drifted into class, out of class, lay on his bed and thought about John. Weeks went by. It amazed him that even after smoking a joint, it still hurt.

_I’m an idiot._ That was his conclusion one day when he woke up completely sober. He’d coerced John in September, had him in the palm of his hands (literally) for most of the first term, and let him go when second term started. Even pushed him away. _Idiot_.

It was his final year. There were classes he needed to pass in order to graduate. His grades tanked. He didn’t care. All he cared about was getting John back, but he feared he’d already lost him forever.

 

It was March. There was a dance, he learned. Posters on campus. A Spring Fling dance. Or something. Something springy. Dancing. John had been dating the drab girl for nearly two months. It was a foregone conclusion that they would go to the fling thing together. Sherlock didn’t care. _Alone is enough._

Having no more patience for school, Sherlock planned to drop out. He cared about nothing. His parents called, upset to see his mid-term grades. _You were doing so well last term! What happened?_ He hated everything. He wanted to curl up in a corner and die. Why couldn’t people just leave him alone?

The night of the dance, Andrew had gotten hold of serious stuff, good stuff. Even if his grades were stellar, Sherlock would probably be kicked out of school just for the smell of that weed. 

“Your boy,” Andrew said. “That little athlete.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock responded.

“What’s his name. Watson.” Andrew gestured vaguely. “Rugby? Football? I forget.”

“Gymnastics. What about him?”

“I dunno. Just wondered what happened.”

“He’s…” Sherlock sighed. _Straight._ He lay curled up on his bed. There was no point in explaining it to anyone.

_I will be alone forever. I will die from malnutrition because I refuse to eat. They will put tubes down my throat and force me to live. But I will fade away and no one will notice… I will crash my motorcycle into a tree and die…_

There was a knock at the door.

Andrew staggered to his feet, located the door, and opened it. There was John, wearing a dress shirt, half untucked, and his good trousers. If he’d once had a jacket and tie, they’d been lost somewhere along the way… He looked a bit… wrecked.

To Sherlock, he looked perfect. The answer to a prayer.

Sherlock tried to school his face. _Look unconcerned. Look indifferent._ “John,” he said in a wobbly voice. He hadn’t meant to sound so emotional. Scenarios ran through his mind. What should he say next? _So good to see you. How have you been? I hardly noticed you were gone… I missed you so much it nearly killed me… Please, never, ever leave me again…_

John looked right at him. “I’m sorry.” The first words in weeks. His eyes filled with tears. “Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry,” said Sherlock. “For…?”

He sat down on Sherlock’s bed. “For not being honest.”

“Honest? About what?” His thoughts were running in circles, chasing their own tails.

“About…” John licked his lips, his eyes darting towards Sherlock, then Andrew. “Do you want to walk a bit?”

Sherlock found himself focused on the smallest details. John’s fingernails, bitten to the quick (unhappy). A few shaving cuts (decided it was time, but no one to show him how it’s done). Overgrown hair (went home for interim break, didn’t manage a haircut). The tacky suit, too small for him now (couldn’t afford a new one).

“Don’t you have a previous engagement? A dance, to be more specific? Fling? Thing?” Though the name of the event escaped him, he’d seen the posters, knew that his classmates put stock in this event. “You have a date,” he stated. “A date with a woman. You ought to be flailing about the dance floor with her about now.”

He shook his head. “We broke up. Sarah said…” he sighed. “She says that I’m interested in you.” He gestured half-heartedly towards the door. “They’re dancing. I’ve forgotten how to dance. Not that I ever… danced with another boy before.” He swayed unsteadily. “I just want to dance with you, love. Sherlock, dance with me.”

Sherlock sat up. “Let’s go for a drive.” He tried to imagine dancing scenarios, but he felt like collapsing into John’s arms and signing documents that would guarantee that _you are mine, from now until the end of time. You are never allowed to leave again, John Watson…_ He felt like covering him with kisses and tattoos.

“You’re…” John giggled. “You seem a bit high. And I’m afraid I’ve been drinking. So maybe we should just go up to my room and make out.”

John’s roommate was asleep, but woke up when John’s key allowed the door to swing open. He made it clear that he did not want to listen to homoerotic sighs and groans. They ended up in the Jaguar. It was small, and the gear lever seemed determined to keep them apart. Finally, Sherlock climbed into John’s lap. “You’ve grown,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” said John. “Completely threw off my balance. And ’m still growing. Playing rugby now. Against my coach’s advice, and not very well, but…”

“What about your scholarship?”

John sighed. “I have six months to get back into competition.”

Sherlock ran his hands over the firm thighs, the tight buttocks, the lovely biceps. “You’ll be competitive in no time. You’re perfect.”

“Yeah?” John laughed, then kissed him. “You were right. Girls aren’t as good at… some things.”

They snogged over the gearstick and struggled to undo one another’s flies. They giggled, kissed some more, slid their hands into unexplored territory.

“Do your parents know? Do they care?” John whispered.

“My parents are happy that they are not paying hourly rates for an expensive psychotherapist who will tell them I’m demented. They will be happy if I graduate.”

“My mum…” John said. “She doesn’t care. My stepdad, though…”

“He’s an idiot,” Sherlock said. “He doesn’t care about you.”

They didn’t need to give it a name. In fact, defining it could be dangerous. John was back, sorry that he’d left. That was all that mattered.

Now, all he had to do was figure out how not to lose John again. And try to graduate.

 

He received an invitation to join the class of 1999 at Cambridge in the fall.

Thinking about uni made Sherlock’s guts twist. He knew his IQ was higher than the brightest students at Cambridge. But he wasn’t cut out for academics. He might be a genius, as Mummy assured everyone who would listen, but he had a brain that folded up under sensory overload. He’d taken several trips to Cambridge, just to walk the paths and enter the buildings, taking in all the smells and sounds, so that by the time he was expected to begin classes, he might push aside all the extraneous stimuli that made his brain stammer and flutter and panic. He had memorised the campus, scheduled his classes, and looked up what books he would have to buy. He built himself a new computer for his room, and thought about buying a laptop to carry with him. It was the most planning he had ever done.

But the most necessary thing of all would be at Linden. John would not be at Cambridge to ground him, to be his conductor of light, to be the one who reminded him of what was most important at each moment. And he would not have the small, tight body to touch, that beautifully idiotic face to kiss. These were things that grounded him and kept him focused and content. His fear of the newness was mostly a fear of loss, he knew.

He thought about failure.

 

Time continued to measure change.

Mummy and Daddy and Mycroft came to see him walk across the stage wearing a gown and a medieval mortarboard with a tassel. He felt silly, but John wore his new suit and a tie, and took pictures, and looked so proud that Sherlock had to indulge him.

He was terrified.

His chemistry teacher, Dr Jensen, had helped him apply to Cambridge, even got him a scholarship he didn’t need. He’d talked to his old colleagues who were now professors at Cambridge about this brilliant, difficult boy who would eventually do something amazing, if only people would help him along.

It felt like a setup. _Go on, show us how amazing you are. Make us proud._

John snapped pictures of him standing next to Dr Jensen, in his cap and gown, ready to step into his future.

Mummy and Daddy, relieved to have finally passed one hurdle, took them to dinner at a restaurant they had known since their own undergraduate days. Daddy ordered champagne, and even John was allowed a glass.

John took pictures of them at dinner, trying to catch Sherlock smiling. Mycroft took a picture of the two of them, Sherlock kissing the side of John’s face, and John grinning, looking a bit drunk from the champagne.

Sherlock and his family went to the family estate in Sussex. John had to go home and get a job. Sherlock promised that he would come up to Scotland for John’s birthday. They would visit Stornoway, they’d decided, and see the standing stones at Calanais.

 

He watched John sleep in the narrow bed in the draughty hotel room, listening to the waves of rain that pelted across the roof and washed against the windowpanes. He ran his hands lightly over the sleeping form, the neck and shoulders, the chest and belly, the back, the firm, rounded buttocks. _So perfect, so proportional._ He took John’s soft cock in his hand, weighing it gently, for once feeling it not as urgent and demanding attention. It slept in the crevice of John’s thigh like a small, harmless animal. He ran his fingers gently through the coarse pubic hair, darker than the hair on his head. All these things he memorised, putting each sensation on a shelf in a room labeled _John._

The soft cock began to raise its head at the attention, even as John continued to sleep. Sherlock stroked it, still gentle, but insistent. _So beautiful._ John hummed, arching into his hand. Sherlock felt the cock begin to harden as his fingers tested the weight of the balls, rolling them between his fingers.

“Sherlock,” John mumbled sleepily. “Mmm.”

He continued to move his hand patiently, feeling the cock wake.

“Ohhh,” John sighed. “Don’t stop.”

The first times they’d had sex, it had been hot, fast, hard. They had grabbed for each other, held on as if the earth would tilt and drop them into a void, cried out each other’s names as they fell.

This time, it was like a flow of lava, burning slowly, gradually incinerating their limbs, leaving only ashes behind. Even their gasps were hot, liquid. When at last they lay still, the glow remained.

Lying there with John asleep in his arms, Sherlock imagined a day when all that he would have left of him were the small bits he kept in his memory, the photographs, and the little prism. He wondered if he could survive losing John.


	4. Genius

Cocaine was genius.

He, Sherlock Holmes, was a genius.

A graduate of Linden, now at Cambridge. Chemistry.

A graduate of cigarettes and alcohol, a new student of other things.

Cocaine, for instance. What nicotine had done adequately, cocaine did brilliantly. Awake, amazing. Multi-tasking, multi-talented. All-observant, all-aware, all-powerful.

Alcohol had taken care of him before, but now there were other things that could do the same, slow down his mind so he could sleep, keep him from going mad.

Genius. Sleep. Manic. Exhaustion. Mad. Genius.

Chemistry.

Victor Trevor was a genius.

Victor Trevor, golden scion of a Lord Somebody, third in his class at Eton, destined for greatness. Everything he said was cloaked in an upper class drawl. He was beautiful, and he knew it. He took a keen interest in Sherlock.

Sherlock declined Victor’s invitation to _meet people_.

“I’m going to visit a friend,” he said, feeling as if he had just stabbed John through the heart by referring to him as merely a _friend._ Two weeks into the first semester, and he felt as if he were drowning. Too many people, too many expectations, too much talking, too much. The stimuli were overwhelming. John would help him right himself.

“Suit yourself,” said Victor. “You’d do better to find yourself a new _friend._ ”

But then there was an exam, and a research project, and too many labs to write up. Too many, too much. He called John. “I can’t come this weekend. Soon, though.”

He’d bought John a mobile. At first, they talked almost every day. Then it was a couple times a week. Phone calls were not enough; John’s voice only made him more lonely. He needed John’s body. By November, he would see his number on caller ID and promise himself he’d call him back when he was less busy. 

December. John rang again. “You sound weird,” he said. “Are you all right, Sherlock?”

John sounded — what? _Suspicious? Sad? Worried?_ Without his face, his constantly updating expressions (Happy, Sad, Focused, Confused), Sherlock could not read him. John was written in Braille, and Sherlock had only the audio track.

“I’m fine.” He supposed this was true. “I’ll pick you up Thursday.”

“Okay. I think I did all right on the maths final. Just two more to go. How about you?”

 _I haven’t slept for 72 hours. I remember everything. My brain is on fire. “_ Chemistry on Thursday morning at nine. Then I’m done.”

“I can’t wait for break. Are your parents okay with me spending part of it with you?”

He hadn’t told them. _Hm. Forgot that._ “No problem.”

“Sherlock,” he began.

“What is it, John?”

“I’m still your boy, yeah?” He heard John sniff. _Cold? Allergy? Crying?_

“Of course.”

“Okay, then. Love you.”

_Love? Was that what this was?_

“I’ll see you on Thursday. No later than four.”

 

He might have been awake for a while and just not noticed. He tried to remember something. Anything. _Where am I?_ He inhaled and slowly let it out. _Room. Bed._ Okay, then.

Eyes open. Ugly ceiling. Cold. Naked. _Naked?_

He sat up. _John?_

“What day is it?”

“Thursday.” Victor’s voice. “Anticipating your next question, it’s about four-thirty, p.m.”

 _Something_. He was supposed to go somewhere, do something. _Chemistry exam._ “Fuck.” He got out of the bed and began throwing his clothes on. If he hurried, he could make it to the prof’s office, claim illness, family emergency…

4:30. His shoulders sagged. _Too late_. The professor had warned them that he was leaving town right after the exam. 

“Your little boyfriend was here.”

“John?” His mind gaped. _John was here. I was… Did I forget?_

“He was going to surprise you. Instead, I think he got a surprise.”

“Where is he?”

Vic shrugged. “Gone.”

Sherlock finally looked at Victor, saw the black eye and the split lip, knew with terrible certainty what had happened.

“When was this?”

“Early afternoon.”

He pulled out his mobile, pushed buttons, listened as it rang… _nine, ten, eleven…_ _No answer._

“Fuck.”

Victor laughed. His enjoyment of Sherlock’s displeasure was clearly immense. “Calm down. I think you need a hit, love. Or maybe just more _love_.” His hips moved suggestively.

Sticking his mobile in his jacket pocket, Sherlock fisted Vic’s shirt and shoved him against the wall. He thought of several things to say, but the look on his roommate’s face — amused, smug — told him it would be a waste of energy. John had already said it — better. He released the shirt and pushed him aside as he made his way out of the room.

Trying John’s number again, he walked towards his car. Slush was falling from the sky. Grey, wet, unable to make up its mind whether it was really winter. _No answer._ “Idiot.” He meant himself.

At the car, he dropped his keys in a puddle as he sorted through them. _Where to? Linden? Glasgow? Home?_ He bent to retrieve them and noticed a figure crouched on the ground by the passenger side.

John. Soaked and shivering with cold, but here.

He knelt down in the slush. “John.”

“Something I need to do,” John mumbled. “Kill you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Easy to say. Still going to kill you.”

“Let’s get inside the car.”

He started the car and turned up the heat. John was still shaking, whether from the cold and wet, or from anger, he couldn’t tell.

They sat for a few minutes, Sherlock fiddling with the heat, John saying nothing, refusing to look at him.

“John,” he said. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Just tell me what you’ve done. What you’ve taken.”

“You know what I am. _How_ I am. How my mind works. I’m not cut out for school.” He fidgeted. _Explanation not coming out right._ “I was overwhelmed, having trouble focusing, sleeping — everything. It started with the cocaine, and it was like cigarettes times a hundred, a thousand. Focus. Energy like you wouldn’t believe. I was getting everything done, even my boring classes. I wasn’t even sleeping. And then… it was too much. I started having panic attacks. Couldn’t stop. So… the heroin.”

“Victor?”

“He knows how to get things. Drugs.”

“And what did he get from you?”

He hesitated. “Money, at first. And then my parents started asking about my spending.” He sighed. “It didn’t mean anything. Not like with you.” _Stupid Victor._

Quietly, John began to sob. Sherlock watched his shoulders shaking, uncertain whether he should touch him. Finally, he laid his hand on the narrow shoulder, felt him stiffen.

“Did you — did he give you another hit when you woke up? Are you high now?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No.” He desperately wanted some, but in the face of John’s disappointment and anger, was glad he hadn’t given in. He’d pushed Victor aside. A small thing to be proud of.

“How would you feel?” John turned on him, his voice choked with anger and grief. “You don’t even like me to drink more than one beer. You hate it when anyone looks at me. If I’d done what you did…”

Empathy was never Sherlock’s strongest quality, but now he thought about how he would have felt to discover that John was taking dangerous drugs (yes, he admitted they were), how he would react if John had let another person fuck him. _Blinding anger. Fury. Nobody touches John. Kill the people responsible for hurting my boy._

He put his face on John’s shoulder. “I’m so stupid.” He started to cry. “I’m sorry, Bunny.”

John said nothing, but put his arms around him. _Forgiveness — maybe._

A car pulled up next to the Jaguar, a dark car with tinted windows.

“I'm sorry,” John said, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands, looking into his eyes. “I didn't know what else to do.”

Mycroft stepped out of the car.

“No,” said Sherlock, getting out of the Jaguar to face his brother. “No! I’m not going with you!” He raised his fist, not really intending to hit Mycroft, but angry enough that it was an instinctive response.

John scrambled out of the car after him. “Please,” he said, holding his arm. “Sherlock, please.”

Sherlock turned on him, pushed him to the ground. “How could you do this to me? I hate you! _I hate you!_ ”

John looked up at him, too astonished to speak.

It was five years before he saw John again. By then, all explanations seemed superfluous.

 

Sherlock already knew how to predict the future. Now he learned to wait patiently as time slowly spiralled out, revealing what was inevitable.

Though maths had always been his favourite subject in school, he got zeros on every test. He was doing calculus by the age of eleven. His answers were always correct, but his refusal to write out the steps that brought him there meant that he could not take credit for his answers. Mrs Nance explained it to him. “You cannot possibly have figured out the correct answer in your head. You must have cheated.”

Mummy, who had been a maths professor at Oxford, had explained things to Mrs Nance. “Just because you can’t do it in your head doesn’t mean Sherlock can’t.” He was moved to a higher class. 

Mathematics was just like motion. He could see the answer without even stopping to notice how he got there. A person doesn’t need to know what muscles are contracting and lengthening to be able to walk.

He learned statistical probability when he was ten. From that point on, he could see exactly what led to events, and where things were heading. His father’s lengthy disappearances. His mother’s social causes. His brother’s eating habits. His own diagnoses. Every decision he made led to a new set of probabilities. His own life seemed more and more to be moving towards a destination with terrible certainty. It was depressing, but reassuring.

Tantrums created a flurry of adult activity — bribes, threats, restraints. Not talking enabled him to control the activity. Resuming talking brought back rewards. Sitting in a corner and rocking because he could not process all the talking led to calm and quiet. Too much quiet and calm made Mummy fear that he wasn’t learning to _socialise_ , which led to nursery school. The noise and confusion of other children caused him to strike out. Adults went into a panic over that. Being expelled from nursery school led to a private tutor, which led to blessed isolation, until Mummy determined that he needed more socialisation. ( _Why is more stimulation always the response to too much stimulation?_ ) Hence the next school. Another expulsion. Another tutor. Eventually, boarding school. It was an (almost) perfect circle of cause and effect.

The first boarding school expelled him when a girl poked him in the arm (action) and he knocked her unconscious (reaction).It didn’t matter to the school that she had been poking him for five minutes, trying to get a reaction from the _freak._ The police called it an assault (not the poking part, just the knocking unconscious part); the school recommended a tutor.

His experience at the second school ended similarly. A group of boys taunting him (cause), his patience broken, his violent assault of the boy whose gang had tried to bugger him (effect). Heterosexual boys did not bugger other boys, the head master had told him (rationalisation). Sherlock was lying (conclusion (false)).

Eventually, his parents found Linden, a school for gifted children. That’s how he was finally catalogued. He’d grown quite a bit in the past two years and was now big enough and strange enough to ward off bullying. He had no problems. Also no friends.

He saw the dreary years stretching ahead of him, always alone. People always assumed he had no friends because he didn’t want them (false). Letting them believe this was much easier than letting them know the truth. He wanted to be liked, but didn’t know how to be likeable (truth). Most kids his age were boring, anyway, so he hadn’t bothered to learn how to be sociable (rationalisation).

Everything happened as he predicted. Linden was easier than those other schools, but not because it was better. The students were still boring, predictable, shallow, hateful. He was simply more skilled at being an outcast now. He would graduate, go to college, take whatever jobs his father could get for him, live in a small flat, spend his time alone. He would drink or take drugs to ease the boredom. Eventually it would all become so boring that he would run his motorcycle into a tree and die. These events were just equations. He did not need to know the steps leading up to these conclusions.

The thing he hadn’t predicted was John Watson.

John ought to have been boring like the rest. He was transparent to Sherlock’s eyes, a boy whose path in life was pre-determined by everything that had brought him to Linden. He would be a hard-working (but not brilliant) student, an athlete that won competitions (but never went to the Olympics), somebody’s boyfriend (second flute in the orchestra), eventually going steady (debate society president), engaged (coworker), married (different coworker), two kids (boy, girl), a house in the suburbs (white fence, dog, cat, holiday trips to Brighton). A doctor, a solicitor, an accountant. Didn’t matter. John Watson’s life was already history.

He watched, waiting to see it come true. So obsessed was he with his prophecy that he almost missed it. John Watson was staring back at him.

 

Mycroft came to visit him in the hospital.

“I need to see John,” he told him.

Mycroft gave him his all-purpose smile. “Not advisable, little brother.”

“I want to be released. I’ve been here for weeks, done everything that has been asked of me.” He wasn’t sure how many weeks it had been, but he knew that it had been a long time.

“You need to stay, Sherlock. Another month, at least.”

“You deceived me. You didn’t bring me here for rehab, did you?”

“I brought you here because your life was in danger, and you were endangering others. That danger has not yet passed. Until then, you must stay.”

“Then let me see John,” he pleaded.

Mycroft’s sigh was heavy and final. “You need to leave that boy alone, Sherlock. This _infatuation_ of yours is not healthy.”

“It’s not as if I’ve brainwashed him. Let him decide.”

“He’s a child, a minor under the law, with no one to look out for him. I will not allow you to continue _manipulating_ him simply to serve your own _inclinations._ ”

Mycroft had a talent for making abstract words sound dirty, he thought. “Everything I’ve done is something he wanted. He’s not an innocent.”

“Neither are you,” Mycroft returned. “If it were possible for you to care for another person, that would be one thing. I might accept this as a childhood crush, an immature romance that would run its course. But you don’t care for other people, Sherlock. You never have. There is only one person you care about, and that is yourself.”

Sherlock could not think where to begin. “You don’t know me—”

“I’ve known you all your life. I see what you are. You see it too, though you lie about it. Lying is, I suppose, part of the disorder; you do it knowingly and without remorse.”

“You think I’m a sociopath.”

Pursing his lips, Mycroft shrugged. “We both know how it has affected Mummy. She was never the same after they explained what was wrong. She blames herself.”

“How old was I? Seven, eight? To diagnose a personality disorder in a child that young is malpractice. Mummy never believed it.”

“She did, eventually. It broke her heart. I promised her that I would take care of you, not let you hurt anyone.” He took out a cigarette, offered one to Sherlock, who declined. Lighting his own, he sat back in his chair. “This boy is nothing to you. You are angry because your toy is being withheld.”

“Let me talk to him. I won’t cooperate with any more therapy — or whatever this is — not until you let me see him. Ask him— let him decide.”

Mycroft shrugged. “I’ll talk to him.”

 

He remembered the last words he’d said to John: _I hate you._

He remembered promises he’d made: _I’ll take care of you._

He remembered promises John had made: _Always. No matter what._

He remembered: _Only you. Forever._

 

John would not break a promise. He was that kind of person.

But maybe, if someone said _I_ _hate_ you, the promise was nullified. The equation must balance. Love plus hate equals indifference.

John was loyal, but not stupid. He had dreams, plans, goals. Which would he choose now — his own future or a man who hated him?

Maybe it could be fixed. When John came to see him, he would explain. He would say he’d made a misstep, but was ready to right himself. John would listen and understand. He would say, _I will never leave you. No matter what. Even if you say you hate me, I know you really love me._

 

A few days later, Mycroft returned. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said. “I have spoken to John. He does not wish to see you.”

He didn’t question whether or not it was true.

 

He stopped eating. A slow way to die, but the only one available. They intubated him.

He stopped talking. Mycroft came to see him. They sat together, across the room from each other, without speaking. After exactly an hour, as if an appointment had been fulfilled, Mycroft got up to leave. “Brother, you will survive.”

 

Time passed, but he did not notice. He was stuck in one moment: _John doesn’t want to see you._ He could not solve it. Over and over, he went through the steps, but it always came out wrong. _John doesn’t want to see me. I want to see John. These are both true_. The only logical conclusion he could draw from this conundrum was _I must die._ Perhaps that could be arranged. But it could not be accomplished in this place.

 

Finally, he spoke. “I would like to go home.”

Mummy begged. Mycroft said a visit home could be arranged.

 

At last he’d been sprung him from whatever layer of hell he’d been in for the past months. _Rehab_ Mycroft had called it, optimistically. It was actually a place where people already lost to themselves could make everyone think they were getting better.

He was officially rehabilitated, which meant his parents could now pretend that it had never happened, that he'd never embarrassed them. The months of failure were erased; he could turn a new page.

Had it really been a year since he’d graduated? He remembered standing awkwardly in his medieval gown, John taking pictures with his new camera. Afterwards, they went to Scotland and stood among the standing stones, slept in a tiny bed in a rustic inn while rain drove against the windows. John would have graduated by now and gone on to university.

Just months ago, John had been calling, worrying, asking what was wrong. And he’d been putting him off, promising that everything was fine.

When he thought about John, he felt as if something had broken inside of him and now shards of that something were painfully stuck in his heart. Somehow it kept beating.

He could hardly remember how he’d spent the last eight months. The only person he’d talked to, outside of the staff of that place, had been Mycroft. Once he’d received his brother ’s approval, Sherlock caught a bus and came home. Where else could he go?

 

Finding out where John lived was not hard.

“I'm trying to locate a former student,” he told the receptionist who answered the phone at Linden. 

“Sorry, who's asking?”

“Marvin Bland. I’m with the Boynton Fund. One of your graduates from ’96 was a runner-up for a scholarship last year.We'd like to offer him a chance to reapply. Unfortunately we don't know how to get in touch with him.”

“Name?”

“Watson. John Hamish Watson.”

She gave him what he asked for. “I'm sure he'll be eager for another chance. With his mother dying, I'm sure he can use the funds.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't know.”

“Yes, just before graduation. And the injury knocked him out of competition, so he won't be getting any money there.”

He thanked her and rang off. Then he sat, thinking. Gymnastics had never been John’s long term plan, so perhaps that wasn't a major setback. Injuries were common; anyone who expected to retire after a long athletic career was a fool. John wasn't a fool. It had just been a ticket for him, something he could use for scholarships.

_He remembered that small, tight body hurtling through the air. He remembered his hands on that perfect arse, those thighs…_

Losing his mother had probably been hard, though. Sherlock knew John had felt responsible for her, though expecting a sixteen year old to provide for his family wasn’t reasonable. Though he'd never felt much affection for his own family, Sherlock knew that John cared about his mother and sister. It just didn't seem fair, though, that he'd had so much thrust on him at such a young age. A boy that age shouldn’t feel guilty because he had the means to surpass his family’s expectations. He shouldn’t be dragged down by their problems.

 _I’ll take care of you._ He’d made that promise to John, and had meant it. In Stornoway, where they’d first had sex ( _real_ sex) he would have promised him the moon, the stars — the entire solar system, even. It wasn’t just the sex he wanted. What he wanted, he could not even put into words. If he’d believed that the human mind was not simply a collection of chemical reactions, he might have said _I want your soul._ But he didn’t believe in souls, immortal or chemical. That did not stop him from wanting.

John had given himself. He’d promised, _always. No matter what._

On their way back from the island, John had brought him to Glasgow to meet his mother. He remembered her, pale and thin, her restless hands twisting in her lap, the resignation in her eyes. She’d looked at her son. _You’re not coming back._ Then at Sherlock. _You’ll take care of my boy,_ she said. It wasn’t a question. It was a recognition of what had already happened. John belonged to him. He was responsible for John.

But he hadn’t taken care of him. Instead, he’d been swept up in the chaos of university, lost sight of what mattered. He had been charged with taking care of John Watson, and he’d failed. Mrs Watson might have been disappointed in him. But ensuring another person’s future was a lot to place on the shoulders of an eighteen year old. Especially one as imperfect as Sherlock.

This John might be a different person, he thought, changed by all he'd been through, all that Sherlock hadn't been there to observe. It had been months since he'd seen or spoken to him, months since Mycroft told him, _he doesn't want to see you_. Maybe he'd told John the same thing, Sherlock doesn't want to see you.

He would hear the words for himself.He would face John, tell him he was sorry, and ask for his forgiveness. He knew John Watson. What they had was not an infatuation, as his brother called it. Nor was it flimsy, insubstantial, easily forgotten. _John loves me_.

He would take care of John, whatever that meant.

Getting away to see him might prove difficult, though. Mycroft had taken his car, promising to return it when and if Sherlock went back to Cambridge and produced satisfactory marks. His motorcycle was in the garage, though. Mycroft would be returning to London soon, and Sherlock could always get around his parents.

He saw his opportunity one day after Mycroft left. Telling his mother that he was going to see a friend for a few days, he got on his motorcycle and left. His mother seemed pleased that he had a friend he wanted to visit.

It took him eight hours to reach Edinburgh.

He’d been thinking about nothing else as he drove north, the wind in his face and his bike purring under him. John had loved the motorcycle even more than the Jaguar. He imagined himself swinging his leg over it, surveying the campus with nonchalance, spotting John across the way. John would go still, his face betraying him, and Sherlock would smile…

No sense going on this way, he thought as he drove around the campus. John was nowhere to be seen.

He went to the address he’d wheedled out of the Linden receptionist. This was where John lived, a small flat on a side street, just a short walk from the Medical School. Nothing fancy or sumptuous. John Watson hated wasting money on himself. A flatmate, Sherlock assumed. John would be focused on his studies, as he had been at Linden, though he no longer had someone who cared.

He went up the two flights of stairs and knocked, his heart pounding. No answer.

Picking locks was a skill he’d learned, not one he advertised, though it had proved useful a few times before. He went into John Watson’s flat and looked around.

John was probably the second neatest person on the planet. Though Sherlock could not imagine anyone neater, statistically speaking, there was probably one neat freak who outdid Watson. But it was hard to imagine.

Sherlock quickly went through closets and drawers. He figured out which bed was John’s. In the bedside table, he found lube and condoms.

_Well, did I expect him to remain celibate, after I let my roommate screw me for drugs?_

At a cafe across the street, he sat and drank coffee, waiting for John to return from class or the library, or whatever he was up to on a Friday evening. He pretended to be doing research on his laptop.

The voice was what he recognised first. He didn’t know how to describe John’s voice. It was warm and humorous and tentative. It made him shiver. He imagined his face, sweet and puzzled, looking up at him. Opening his eyes, he saw two shadows standing at the crosswalk.

“Of course you are,” he heard John saying. “Nobody could possibly—”

“But I just—” A woman’s voice.

“He’s an idiot,” said John. “Hey, you’re my girl, aren’t you?”

“Oh, John,” she said. She pulled his face towards hers and kissed him.

Their voices grew softer, more intimate. The light changed and they crossed, holding hands.

All that he hadn’t predicted crashed around his ears. _John is dating a woman. John has become straight. John has forgotten me._

He sat at the cafe for a long time, long enough for a woman whose name he didn’t know to sit down opposite him and say, “Sherlock, it’s time to go home.”

“Mycroft?” he managed. She nodded.

He didn’t argue. She made arrangements for the bike, drove him home.

 

He spent two weeks curled up in bed. Then Mycroft came home.

“Sherlock,” he said, his voice heavy with disappointment. “I warned you. Give up this obsession.”

He turned over, faced the wall, growled. “He belongs to me.”


	5. The Pursuit of Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock plans the Apocalypse.

He spent a year in his room. The internet was growing up. He made friends there that he never had to see, people who never called him a freak. He frequented a BBS called TOTSE* where he could talk about anything. How to Build a Bomb. Drug Smuggling. Gay Sex. Money Laundering. Credit Card Fraud. Hacking. Identity Theft. Piracy.

He drank it all in. Not bold enough yet to build his own bomb or hack into government servers, the possibility held his interest. A few people were doing these things, while the majority of computer users were still dialling into secure environments like AOL and CompuServe, where they could get email and check stock prices and think they were tech-literate. _You’ve got mail!_

He saw the possibilities. He educated himself. 

* * *

 Note:  _*TOTSE was a San Francisco Bay Area website and former BBS dedicated to storing text files on a variety of subjects and viewpoints, many of which were unusual or controversial. The name is an acronym for Temple of the Screaming Electron. At one time, it held the largest repository of text files on the internet._

* * *

 He thought of John often, but gave up the idea of contacting him. John had moved on. He wished he could figure out how to do the same. The pain was real, physical. Not even drugs helped.

 

“You’re too young to understand,” his father said to him. “You don’t have to make everything a battle. Growing up means accepting that things won’t always be fair or even make sense.” Maybe Sherlock should get a job, any job, and just work for a while. That was his father’s solution to his apathy. A job equaled reality, maturity, responsibility. Sherlock didn’t explain to him how much money he was already making by building customised computers and doing free-lance programming. In his father’s mind, those things would never add up to a _real job._

His mother urged him to _pursue his natural gifts_. Even she didn’t understand the depth of his disappointment — in them, in himself, in life. She seemed to think that people just magically became happy and fulfilled when they let go of things. Gifted in mathematics, an early student of computer science, she’d let go of a promising academic career in order to raise her children. Born the same year as both Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, she could have been on the front line of the personal computer revolution. Instead she had babies. Her sons were intended to be her fulfilment, her meaning in life.

She’d kept baby books on him and Mycroft, filling in dates — first smile, first tooth, first words. Mycroft’s book was all filled in, with pictures glued to some pages and stickers in other places. His paediatrics chart was in a pocket on the back cover, all the dates of his immunisations and his height and weight at every appointment. By the time Sherlock was born seven years later, Mycroft’s book was all filled up. After that, she kept his best school papers in a special file, one folder for each year.

Sherlock’s baby book was completely filled for six months. After that, there were blank spaces. She’d written in notes on some pages, obviously trying to remember when foregone events had taken place. There were a few pictures (Mycroft holding him, a birthday cake pose, under the Christmas tree), but the last pages were all empty. She’d just given up, let it go, and never went back. Maybe she’d been too tired by then. Once it became clear that Sherlock wasn’t going to be an easily-charted baby like his brother, she just stopped. Then it was all about finding specialists to talk to, reading journal articles about neuro-atypical children, and trying to keep all the cracks from showing on the outside. When none of that satisfied her mothering instinct, she began doing charity work, collecting school supplies and Christmas presents for poor children, arranging tutoring and mentoring programs, and building a scholarship fund. Sherlock’s _little friend John_ had benefited from that, she sometimes boasted to her charity friends. _He’s turned out quite well_ , Sherlock overheard her saying.

Sherlock hadn’t turned out well. He was aware of her disappointment. His father’s disappointment was less of a concern. He’d never really tried with either of his sons. Mycroft was always more cooperative, and when he finally followed his father into government work, they at least had something to talk about.

He did care, sometimes, that his mother was disappointed. It angered him, though, that she had made her children her entire life and hadn’t done what she kept prodding him to do — _follow your interests_.

So he had agreed to try school again. He went back to Cambridge, the scene of his disaster. His parents’ connections had guaranteed that he got in and was allowed to expunge the months of cocaine and heroin that had passed in a haze. He was clean now, he promised.

He took classes, which he found easy. He avoided people, who always disappointed.

He did not see Victor, whose father had lost all his money and died. Victor had been expelled and went to live in Australia.

He studied chemistry. He played his violin. He learned to hack, created viruses for fun, and made side money designing websites and building computers. He followed his interests, used his gifts.

He hated everything else.

 

Families are those people whom we would rather ignore, but who, because of an accident of birth, will always demand our attention.

Sherlock hated his family. Not the specific people, though the less he saw of them, the better. Mostly he hated the entire idea of family.

He came home for Christmas, two years after the day he thought of as the end of everything good. _Armageddon_.

His mother had saved some supper for him. She’d been doing charity work all day, she said, a Christmas lunch for the poor — with a Santa she’d managed to find, one with a real beard. “Not one of those tacky things that look like cotton wool. And he had quite a nice suit. Didn’t smell like mothballs. The gift giveaway was disappointing, though. Children these days are not as excited about books as they used to be. Why, when you and Mycroft were boys…”

Daddy was in the sitting room, as always, reading the evening paper and smoking his pipe. He grunted when he saw Sherlock. “People coming over tomorrow night. Your mum’s annual do, you know. I expect you have a suit and tie you can wear.”

He declined food and went up to his room. Mycroft would not arrive until tomorrow, so he had at least a few hours of solitude. He hated his mother’s “do’s,” which often involved fixing him up with somebody’s daughter. He would have to be as dreadful as possible. Maybe he wouldn’t shower, would conveniently not find anything in his closet to wear, and would be rude to the fat daughters his parents’ friends always seemed to bring with them. “Such a lovely girl,” his mother would sigh. “Why don’t you take her for a walk, Sherlock? You can show her the neighbourhood, look at the fairy lights.”

Mummy had clearly given up on Mycroft producing a family. She didn’t ask; he didn’t tell. He was always polite, if formal, with women, but never enthusiastic. All Mummy’s hopes rested on Sherlock, even after his year-long exile. He would disappoint her, but she’d get over it. Or not. He didn’t care.

He tinkered with his computers, hooking a modem up to the phone line so he could get into his usenet groups. No DSL in this house. This would be the only way to survive the holiday, by spending all his time online, reading things written by faceless people. All night and into the following day, he read and posted replies in his groups. He fell asleep at about nine the next morning and only woke up when Mycroft entered his room and shook him.

“What?”

“You need to get dressed,” Mycroft said. “People arrive in an hour.” He was looking spotless and perfect in a dark grey suit with a light grey shirt and maroon tie.

“Fine. Get out.” He had no intention of dressing. He opened up his groups again and began reading. He lit a joint to mellow himself out. Maybe, by the time someone came to bother him again, he wouldn’t care.

“You’re not dressed,” said his father, standing at the door of his room. At least he knew enough not to cross the threshold.

Sherlock knew enough not to say _brilliant deduction._ “In a minute,” he said, typing a reply to a particularly stupid post.

He heard the doorbell ring, distant, and the voices of women shrieking greetings to one another. Women like his mother, always blowing air kisses and pretending they liked one another, doing charity work that tossed a few crumbs to families like John’s, but never really helped anyone. Such charity only made poor people more aware of how poor they were. He hated the hypocrisy.

The women would settle into the parlour with glasses of wine. Later, Mummy would share all the dirt with Daddy, who wasn’t the least bit interested in who was divorcing or having an affair or drinking excessively.

The men would be in the library, smoking and drinking brandy, as if they still lived in a Victorian world where powerful men had lovely wives who stayed out of politics and produced handsome, perfect sons who didn’t embarrass their parents or smoke weed or have sex with other boys.

Well, he only did two of those things any more. Embarrassing his parents was easy. Smoking weed was necessary.

Finally, he heard his mother coming up the stairs. “Sherlock, darling,” she called. “We’d love it if you joined us. Does your blue suit still fit?”

“No.”

She arrived at his door and surveyed the disaster. “You’re not dressed.”

“You noticed.”

“And you’ve been smoking.”

“I’m old enough.”

“I don’t mean cigarettes.”

He said nothing.

“Put on some clothes — clean clothes, I mean — and come down. Penelope Long is here. She’d love to see you.”

“Is she still fat?”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” she said. “Do as I say or there will be consequences.”

“Such as?”

“Your car.”

He sighed. “All right. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Thirty minutes later he entered the dining room wearing the jeans and t-shirt he’d had on since he left school, smelling like weed (not that any of his parents’ friends knew that smell), and ready to be horrible to everyone.

He sat down and helped himself to food and wine, slumped over his seat and began to eat.

“Hi, Sherlock,” Penelope said.

“Penelope,” he replied. “I see that you’ve gained a bit of weight. I’m guessing you broke up with your boyfriend. News flash: he’s gay. Maybe you could acquire an eating disorder. All the cool girls are throwing up these days…”

“Sherlock!” His mother glared at him.

He nodded to the other guests. “Why, hello, Mr Bradley. Good to see you. How’s the court case going? I mean the embezzlement thing, not the prostitution thing… Mrs Long, I didn’t know you’d gone back on the bottle. I heard you’d finished your rehab stint with flying colours. Here, have some more wine.”

“Enough,” his father hissed. “Go to your room.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” He grabbed a bottle of Scotch from the sidebar as he left the room. “Nice chatting with you all.”

 

One year of university down, three more to go. Two if he pushed himself. One if he were Mycroft.

His brother gave him a little pep talk.

“Sherlock, you’ve only to carry on doing what you’re doing, and soon you’ll be done. You’ll have your credential and can choose your own path. I know you find school oppressive, but think of it as a challenge. I completed my degree at Oxford in two years, my master’s in one. You could do the same if you just put your shoulder to the wheel.”

 _Inspiring,_ he thought. _Just keep plodding ahead, placing one foot in front of the other, not noticing how it’s just a rigged game and you’ll be too old to do anything about it once you’re done. Just accept it._

All he said was, “Boring.”

Mycroft always weighed his words carefully. “Many things in life are boring, brother dear. When one is intelligent, though, one can rise above the tedium and find a worthy challenge. Believe me, stupid people are boring. Intelligent people don’t allow themselves to get bored.”

“I’ve decided,” he told Mycroft. “I’ve chosen a career path.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. Skeptical and hopeful. “What have you chosen?”

He bared his teeth, a psycho grin. “I’m gonna be a pirate.”

 

Once he’d set sail, there was no reason to turn back. His parents were still paying, but eventually this ship would run aground. Probably when they found out that he wasn’t going to classes, that he was mostly learning the business of hacking. He intended to set himself up independently as soon as his parents stopped footing the bill, and become an internet legend.

Online shopping was just becoming a thing, and he was able to bring in fairly good money just by designing websites. That was legitimate, though boring. To entertain himself, he began hacking into servers, gleaning information and sometimes leaving behind little surprises, like a burglar leaving a pile of poo by the door. This increased the demand for his other legitimate business, helping small companies with internet security.

It was absurd to see businesses trusting all to a twenty-one year old college drop-out, but that was the new world they were all living in. It was like the open sea, outside of all political boundaries, with no coastal guard on the horizon.

The people he knew best were people he never saw.He would not call them friends, but they might fill that function. People with whom he could be himself. People who might lie about who they were or where they lived or what they looked like. Unimportant details. Trivia, really. What mattered was that they were honest where it mattered. They said what they thought. They had no reason to lie, not about those things, not in an anonymous forum where nobody was selling anything.

Online, there were no facial expressions to misunderstand, no tone of voice to read meaning into, no gestures to contradict the words.

He ran a forum in TOTSE called Intellectuals 4 Violence, encouraged people to post anything. No ideas would be censored, though stupidity would always be challenged. His own ideas were mostly about the pending apocalypse.

 

He tried not to pay attention to how months were passing, but the calendar was relentless.

Sherlock should have finished college by now. Three years was enough. If he’d been Mycroft, he would now be the dictator of a small Balkan country. Mycroft did not find it funny; he constantly reminded his younger brother that he needed to _figure it out._

What was true: Sherlock was twenty-two. An adult in every sense of the word, legally. His brother had given up trying to imprison him.

John would be twenty-one now. No doubt he was in his pre-med program, making everyone proud. That was what John did.

He cringed when he thought this because it sounded bitter, sarcastic. He didn’t mean it that way. John didn’t like disappointing people. If he made a promise, then he would keep it, by God. That was both comforting and disturbing.

Sherlock didn’t think much of promises. Easily made, easily broken.

John had made promises. _Always. Only you._ He’d made requests. _Forgive me._

He remembered John, as he’d left him in the parking lot at Cambridge, shivering in the cold, angry and sad and sorry.

He remembered Mycroft, flying in like an avenging demon, pushing John aside and reminding Sherlock that he didn’t need happy memories to survive. He remembered hating his brother.

The last time he saw John, he remembered the tears. He could not remember whose tears they were.

He raised his arms, testing his wings. A bit shaky, he thought, but there wasn’t time to wait. He would fly, or at least attempt flight. He would soar, or crash.

 

“There will be consequences, Sherlock.”

“You’re just embarrassed because I hacked into your server. You should be paying me, not punishing me. I discovered a weakness that could have been exploited by enemies.” He scowled at his brother. “ _You’re welcome_.”

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock anticipated that he was going to speak using lots of italics and quotation marks. “Please understand that going to prison for _hacking a government server_ would put a ‘crimp’ in your plans — whatever those may be.”

“I have no plans,” Sherlock said. “Plans are boring.”

“Prison is boring, too,” Mycroft said. “Would you consider going back to school? You’ve nearly completed your degree. I would see that your tuition —”

Sherlock snorted. “School is a waste of time. Why sit in a classroom listening to some fool, when I already know more about chemistry than any of them? Why do I need a piece of paper to say I’m brilliant?”

“Being brilliant is _not_ the same as having a degree. That piece of paper is _actual power_. With a degree you could turn your talents to something _useful_.”

“Useful to whom?” he growled. “I don’t want to be a government flunky like you.”

“So, you want to practice your little ‘hobby _’_ for the rest of your life? What will _that_ gain you?”

“The satisfaction of knowing I didn’t compromise my ideals.”

“Oh, so now you have _ideals_?” Mycroft’s lips tightened into a sneer. “Pray, what would those be? Perhaps sitting in prison cell will allow you to develop your ideas into an actual philosophy.”

“I’m not going to prison. I won’t get caught.”

“You have, in fact, been caught — by my _flunkies_ , as you call them,” Mycroft said. You may be ahead of the curve right now, but people in government and business are catching up. Kevin Mitnick is still in prison. Christopher Pile—”

“I didn’t do anything destructive,” Sherlock replied. “I just looked. And I exposed flaws in your security. That’s on you. No flaws, no security breaches.”

Mycroft’s smile grew brittle. “You broke into several government websites, including MI5. This is tantamount to breaking and entering the building itself, and looking through file cabinets — just for the thrill of it. Whether you did anything malicious with what you found is irrelevant.”

Sherlock smirked. “So… consequences?”

“Through my _influence_ , I can see that you do not do time for this little ‘prank’ _._ However, it would behove me to take away your computer and remove your access to the internet.”

“Oh, my!” Sherlock chuckled. “Do you really think you can do that? Are you so certain of your powers? Do you actually think taking my computer will stop me? I promise you, brother, that I could be back online within an hour, hacking into your server once more, from any public computer in London. And this time, there will be no trail of breadcrumbs leading you to my IP.”

Mycroft said nothing. Not yet thirty, he suddenly looked much older. When he spoke, his voice was weary. “Sherlock. You may think I am interfering for the sake of our parents, but that isn’t all of it. I’m simply trying to prevent you from destroying yourself. I know about the drugs. I know that you are not happy, and have not been for many years. There was a time when I thought you might find your way out of the dark passageways in your mind. I still hope that is true. Everything I have ever done has been towards that end. Losing you would break my heart.”

“Well, then,” said Sherlock. “You’ve really fucked up. If you have been trying to save me, as you say, you should have never sent me away to that place, that — lunatic asylum.” He stood, looking darkly at his older brother, feeling so full of anger and hatred that he could barely speak. “All your efforts have ruined me. You will not see me again.” He turned and walked out of his brother’s office, not looking back.

 

It had been four and a half years since his graduation from Linden.

Somewhere on Sherlock’s hard drive, pictures of that event still existed. He’d surprised John with an early birthday present, a new digital cameral. “I know you’re going to take a million pictures of me in that idiotic medieval get-up, so you might as well have a camera that can delete all the bad ones,” he’d said. 

He’d held the camera over them as they lay on his bed and took a selfie of their faces, pressed up against one another like kids in a photo booth. That was the first picture on the memory card that came with the camera. He showed John how to delete the bad ones, told him how he could transfer them to Sherlock’s computer, where they would live forever. There were one hundred and seventeen photos from that day, starting with the one Sherlock took of the two of them on the bed, up through the picture John took at the bus station, when he said goodbye for the summer.

A few of the photos were fuzzy and off-centre, but John had kept them even so, and sent them all to Sherlock.Each one was a little bit of that day, strings of zeroes and ones, captured on a disk smaller than a matchbook. Together, they were proof that it had happened, that the boy with his arm around Sherlock, looking proud and happy, had loved him.

Sometimes, though, when he thought back to that day and the days that led up to it, he feared that John was only partly real, that his imagination had gradually created an image of the boy he’d loved — the sweet-faced innocent who had the filthiest mouth Sherlock had ever heard, the goofy kid who laughed and called Sherlock _amazing,_ the student who always worked harder than anyone else because he was astonishingly humble about his own abilities, the boy who had willingly given himself to Sherlock and cried when he found him with a needle in his arm.

In Sherlock’s imagination, John might be sixteen forever. Now, so far away, so many years later, he had become a figment, the real parts of him growing fuzzy and unfocused before Sherlock’s eyes as the memories faded. The real John had surely changed. He would be twenty-one now, grown up.

He remembered the voice that giggled when they lay in a narrow bed at Stornoway. He remembered the voice that spoke at the crosswalk: _You’re my girl, aren’t you?_ His voice would be a man’s voice now. He would wear different clothes, smell like someone else, and probably love someone else. If not that girl, another one.

Sherlock had been left behind, still waiting for the other John, the one who made his heart race, the boy who said he would never leave.

 

Every now and then, he looked at himself in a mirror. The thin, pale face looking back at him was someone he barely knew. The ghost who typed bad ideas on the internet — that was who he was now.

 

It wasn’t the end of the millennium, he explained to the internet.

A century concludes in a year ending in two zeroes. A millennium concludes in a year ending in three zeroes. There was no _year zero._ A century, a millennium always began with a year ending in one. The twenty-first century would begin on January 1, 2001. It was very simple, if you just thought about it. But people kept saying it all the same.

People were idiots.

Well, it wasn’t the end of the millennium, but it might be the end of the world, some people thought. Sherlock laughed when he heard people worrying about Y2K, wondering if civilisation was about to fall. If civilisation was hanging on a string of code that would make computers believe, when the clock ticked at midnight on December 31, 1999, that it was actually the beginning of the year 1900 — well, civilisation had a lot more problems than were currently acknowledged.

Someone told him that all the power plants would shut down at midnight. Another person thought the stock market would crash, dragging all the banks into a new recession. Children prayed that all the schools would close, because who would ring the bells? Everything was electronic now, in 1999. _Maybe people should invest in buggy whips,_ he thought.

Kipping on the sofa of a bloke he knew, Sherlock dreamed of the end of the world. _How lovely it would be_ , he thought, _if we fell into a new Dark Ages_. The barbarians (or the Russians and the Chinese at least) would be at the gates. The British Empire would fall, toppled by stupidity, NATO would be powerless, and rising from the ashes would be the _leet_ , who would retreat to monasteries and play Tomb Raider and Warcraft amongst themselves, leaving everyone else to kill off humanity.

And then he had a brilliant idea, a completely lovely, ingenious, terrifying idea. And there was still enough time to implement it. A perfect _fuck off_ to his brother and everyone else.

 

As clocks ticked towards midnight, 1 January, 2000, Sherlock waited for his present to unwrap. Once the clock on the computer turned to 00:00:00, all the lights went out.The British Empire reeled. Or part of it did. The blackout affected all of London and parts of southeastern England. Not as apocalyptic as he’d hoped, but there was still time for Armageddon.

It was fortunate that he’d used the other bloke’s computer to set it up. There were no newspapers in London the next day, or broadcasts, so the populace had to wait until two days later to learn that an unknown hacker calling himself _Sh3z_ had caused the power outage.


	6. Fallout Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Descent, crash.   
> Imaginary John gives advice.  
> Real John returns.  
> Rehab, reunion, reclamation, realisation.   
> And sex.

The new millennium began, as scheduled, a year after Y2K, which hadn’t ended civilisation after all. It had been another lost year for Sherlock. He spent it in bolt houses, alleys, and a few homeless shelters.

He was still clever enough to avoid Mycroft, but he felt his cleverness slipping, becoming something else. _Stupidity, perhaps._

Cocaine and heroin were what he used, mainly. He must have eaten — something — because he didn’t die. He might have slept — somewhere — but it was hard to tell the difference between his dreams and reality. These days, all of it blurred together.

Trying to remember what his life used to be, he sometimes conjured John.

_What do you want to be when you grow up, Sherlock_?

This John was about six years old. Blond, small, so cute. The innocent face that Sherlock had wanted to destroy. He looked like he might want to be a fireman, or an astronaut, or a superhero.

“I don’t plan to do anything so mundane as growing up,” he informed the little boy. He noted how sad those beautiful eyes looked, growing older every minute. It was a sadness that bored right into Sherlock, making his gut clench.

_We were going to backpack across Europe_ , John reminded him. He was now sixteen, a boy with shaggy blond hair and deep blue eyes, bouncing down the hall with his backpack and new trainers. _We could have been kids forever._

“I would have liked that,” he replied. “I wasn’t ready for any of it. Not university, not career, not growing up.” He remembered Cambridge. “I needed you.”

_And I needed you. It was hard, going on without you._ John, seventeen, crouched in the freezing rain, waiting for him beside the Jaguar.

“You were in such a hurry to grow up,” he said. “You wanted to finish at Linden a year early and get through university in three years. Why? Growing up is hazardous. It’s horrible.”

_I don’t know,_ John said. He was practicing his floor exercises, doing flips on the mat. Sherlock sat in the bleachers, watching him. _So industrious, my John, so disciplined_. Sherlock watched him catapult himself into the air, spinning around like a satellite. He didn’t land; he just kept spinning.

A John he’d never known, twenty-one years old, was talking to him. _My old man never did anything with his life. He just wished it away. I didn’t want to be thirty and still waiting for something to happen. I had to make it happen._ He crossed his arms across his chest, much broader now than the boy he’d known, still determined, still strong.

“I don’t know what I want,” Sherlock said.

_You only knew what you didn’t want._

“I wanted you. I was sure about that. Can you forgive me?”

But John was grown up, already a doctor. Sherlock shivered. Time was moving so quickly. There was no way to slow down. The clock hands spun, round and round.

John was looking at him. _Can you forgive yourself?_

He didn’t know. He had done things he might regret, if he thought about them. He tried to remember what guilt felt like, what it felt like to hurt John, to make him cry. He wished he hadn’t done that.

Tears ran from his eyes. _I’m not a sociopath_. _I’m sorry. For everything._

John put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He was old now, a tired man with white hair and deep blue eyes. _Don’t wait,_ he said. _I want to remember you. Don’t forget me._

 

He could hear the electricity humming in the walls. The flat was bugged, Mycroft’s doing. He’d heard the bugs crawling around in the ceiling at night. They had eyes and ears. They could hear his thoughts.

It was the colour orange. It smelled like sulphur. It followed him.

He stopped paying his bills. He tried to explain to the landlord about the bugs and the electric humming and the eyes that watched his every move, but the man only said, _money._

That was when he knew he could not stay. They had his fingerprints, so he would wear gloves. His hair grew long and matted and hung over his face. He didn’t cut his hair because _that was what they expected him to do._ He could not touch a computer because _they would know_.

Sometimes he wondered: _where is my mind?_ It was a song that would not stop playing in the background, rewinding and playing endlessly.

_They might already know_.

He heard the clicking. Fingers tapping keys. He tried to remember. Is it like mobile? Do I push the pound key? What happens if I backspace?

The cameras were small rodents, raising their heads up and wiggling their whiskers. They were quiet, so quiet that he was afraid to fall asleep. They turned, their tiny eyes following him down the street, into the alley, through the park. He slept away from the wires so they would not know.

He fell asleep once on a bus. When he woke up, he knew. He hadn’t been on the bus, not really. It was just a tape playing in his mind, so they could trick him. They’d planted a tracking device on him. They put him on a bus so he wouldn’t know what happened.

He had a knife, but he’d lost it. Or maybe they took it. A scalpel would be ideal, but that would require too much time. He needed a knife. He could cut it out.

Where was John? He would know what to do.

_Please, come back. I never meant to hurt you._ John didn’t answer.

_They’re coming._ He steeled himself as they rushed upon him.

 

He had a visitor, the nurse said. Not Mycroft; he never let himself be announced. Mummy had just been to see him two days ago; she never came more often than once a week, generally on Tuesdays. He could not think of anyone else who would want to see him.

“Hello, Sherlock.” John smiled at him from the doorway.

_Five years and five months_.

He ran his eyes over the person before him. He’d filled out a bit, grown a couple inches, but at twenty-three was probably as tall as he was going to get. _Five-six_ , Sherlock decided. Hair shorter, still blond. Eyes still as deep as the ocean. _Poetic nonsense._

“You must be in medical school.”

John nodded. “Linden gave me a leg up, so it hasn’t been impossibly hard. I’ve taken summer classes and doubled up where I could.”

Sherlock felt awkward, but couldn’t deduce exactly why. Enough time had passed that he understood, intellectually, that they’d both moved on. It felt odd, though, standing here having a conversation with John Watson about school, as if they’d only been friends and were now at a reunion, catching up. It embarrassed him that he wanted to hug John, when John was standing there, smiling at him, already a million miles from where they’d last stood together, in the slush of a December afternoon in Cambridge. The last hug, the last words spoken. _I hate you._

_Still in the fallout zone, apparently_.

“Have a seat,” he offered, gesturing at the two chairs his room contained. Since he never had more than one visitor, he didn’t need much seating. “Or we could walk. The grounds are quite nice.”

John nodded. “Let’s walk.”

He hadn’t walked on the grounds much; the weather had been rainy and cold. Today was still chilly for May, but bright. They took the walking path through the garden. Sherlock cast sideways glances at him, thinking _Dear_ _God, you’re still so beautiful._

“I would have come sooner,” John said after a few minutes. “Much sooner. I didn’t think you wanted to see me. I hadn’t heard from any of your family for years— until your mother rang me a few days ago, told me you were here, and asked me to come.”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Saying I didn’t want to see you was Mycroft’s doing. I was damaging you, he said, potentially ruining your life. He didn’t have the right to do that…” He sighed. “…but I’m not entirely sure he was wrong.”

“You weren’t damaging me,” John said. “I would have come. I would have beaten up Mycroft, if necessary. I loved you.” His gaze was steady.

He smiled, even as he felt tears threatening. _Just like John to aim right at the elephant in the room._ “I’m sorry. I put you through a lot. You deserved better from me.” Say it: _I loved you, too._

John shrugged. “It is what it is. How are you doing now?”

“I’m through the worst, but haven’t been clean long enough to make any predictions. This is my second rehab, as I’m sure my mother told you. It isn’t simple, John. There isn’t really a cure for what I’ve done to myself. I’m still trying to figure it out.” He mouthed the words he’d heard other addicts use.

“I understand better now than I did five years ago,” John said. “I know more about addiction. You were angry with me, but I don’t think I overreacted. Maybe I shouldn’t have called Mycroft, but I didn’t know what else to do. I saw you killing yourself. I watched my dad die slowly like that, and I was afraid. Christ, I was seventeen. I thought you were dying.”

He gave John a grim smile. “Even if you hadn’t called him, you can be sure that Mycroft would have found out, and the result would have been the same.”

John nodded. “That time, it seemed like stress triggered you to start using. Or maybe you were just experimenting. You never really had a chance to explain it to me. I just remember shouting at each other in your car. You kept saying that it wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t understand that.”

He sighed. This moment was, apparently, the opportunity to explain. “Cambridge was a struggle for me, not because the classes were hard, but because I had trouble adjusting to the environment. It felt like a tsunami. I was scattered, overwhelmed. That’s why I kept ignoring your calls and putting off visiting, not because I didn’t want to see you. I just couldn’t… I didn’t know how… The drugs were a chemistry experiment of sorts. I thought that I could control it, but it obviously… I mean to say, it didn’t work out.”

“What about this time? Your mum didn’t say much when we talked.”

“After I got out of rehab, the first time, I went back to Cambridge for a bit. It was better the second time around. I worked with my professors, and they allowed me to do quite a bit of independent work. I took some time off, went to the continent for a few weeks, and then came back to London. I didn’t want to go to school any more, so I started doing computer work — programming mostly. I found I could make a fair living by writing code and doing a bit of web design. But I had started using again, and needed more income than those things could provide. In the end, I was an all-out sectionable mess, using risky drugs in riskier combinations. I was hospitalised after an episode of drug-induced psychosis.” _Hope he doesn’t ask more about that…_

“I didn’t know,” John said softly. “Oh, god, Sherlock.”

“I wish I could explain why I started again. Perhaps I hadn’t really learned my lesson the first time. I have always struggled to find a balance between boredom and over-stimulation. I crave mental stimulus. When I find it, though, I have trouble doing ordinary things, like eating and sleeping. The drugs, I thought, could balance me out.”

“I remember finals week at Linden,” said John. “I had to keep bringing you food, making you lie down and relax.”

“You were very good at supplying relaxation,” Sherlock said, his lips twitching into a smile. John’s method to induce sleep, of course, had been sex. That was something he’d missed for the last five years. _No, avoided._ He could have had sex, had he wanted to, but the idea of having it with an unfamiliar person presented too many problems for him. John hadn’t been his first, but he was almost certain that he would be his last.

John laughed. “I think we were both pretty relaxed that week.”

“So,” he said, “are you—” _Seeing someone? Involved with anyone? Gay? Straight?_ “I suppose you’re dating.” He thought about the John he’d spotted in Edinburgh so long ago with his arm around a girl.

“I have dated, but nothing serious. It’s hard to figure out a new relationship while working through a competitive program. I’ve had a lot of first dates, a number of second dates, very few third dates. This past year, I’ve pretty much given up on dating.”

“Dates… men or women?”

“All women, oddly enough.”

“You… you’re straight, then.”

He shook his head. “Not really. Probably bi. I don’t know why I haven’t dated a man. Probably because nobody can compare to you.” He grinned up at Sherlock. “I have lots of mates. I just…” He sighed. “I’m not looking for anyone.”

Sherlock tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t betray the tangle of emotions he felt. He had assumed John would date people; he was a sociable person. In his grimmer imaginings, he thought John might even have fallen in love with someone. Though he couldn’t say why, in the worst of those fantasies, it had always been a man.

“How about you?” John asked. “Any relationships?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t interest me.”

“That’s… Wow. I wouldn’t have thought… What happened to what’s his name, the posh boy whose nose I broke?”

This made him smile. “Never saw him again. I heard he was expelled.”

John nodded. “Good. I only wish I’d hit him harder. Might have left a scar.”

They had stopped walking and now John was just looking at him. In the space between his eyebrows, a small crease had appeared.“What happens now?”

“I’ll be here a few more weeks, at least.”

“And then? Back to school?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.” He sighed, looking at John, so solid and focused and hardworking. _I wish I had you in my life again. You always kept me right._

“What about this summer? I could come down for a few days.”

His heart leaped. Trying not to appear too desperate, he kept his voice calm. “I would like that.”

John smiled, reached out and took his hand.

Sherlock looked down at their two hands, fingers interlaced, and thought of all the times he’d grabbed John’s hand walking to class, or the times John had pulled his hand to get him up and moving. He thought of their first kiss, in the shower; later kisses, lying in John’s bed. He thought of the first time they’d had sex, John lying beneath him, his hands on Sherlock’s back. Say it: _I still love you._

“John.” He swallowed back the tears that threatened. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of. I know you used to think well of me, but I want you to see what I am now. An addict is not a person who can make promises. I can’t even promise anything to myself. You don’t need to feel responsible for me. You did not do this to me, and you cannot fix it. You need to live the life you’ve planned.”

John’s voice was quiet, his eyes gentle. “I know.” He brought their hands to his mouth, brushed Sherlock’s fingers with his lips. “I’m not asking for anything. I just want you to know that I still love you, and if you need me, I’ll come. Whatever we end up with is more than I have now.”

A door had re-opened. He had never forgotten how it felt to love John, but he’d closed that door a long time ago. _No, Mycroft closed it_. And he had never even tried to open it, thinking it was better for it to stay locked. Now John had left it open, waiting to see what he would do. Maybe he could do this. Maybe this time he wouldn’t mess things up, wouldn’t leave John hurt and angry.

When he didn’t reply, John smiled and took his hand. They walked back into the hospital. At the door of his room, they stopped. John put his arms around him and laid his head against Sherlock’s chest. “How could I not have fallen in love with you?”

Sherlock smiled into John’s hair. “You said I was scary.”

“Scary, gorgeous, brilliant, romantic. All of those things.” He pulled Sherlock’s face down and kissed him, not hard and frantic, as they once had, but with a slow longing. “I’ve missed you.”

Say it: _I love you._ “Thank you, John. I — I’m glad you came.”

“They said you can’t have a phone in here, but just tell your mum to ring me if you need me, yeah? When you get out, we can arrange a visit.”

John smiled and began walking down the hall. He was getting further away with every step. _Maybe if I weren’t such a coward, I would have said it a long time ago, and things could have been different. Maybe John would have stayed_ …

“John—”

John stopped, turned, and looked back. “Sherlock?”

“I… I missed you. And…” He was afraid. _Say it._ “I love you.”

John’s face was like the sun. “I know, Sherlock. I’ve always known.”

 

They sat along the river path, overlooking the Thames. John had suggested that they play tourists, exploring things they’d never seen in the city. It was like being on a date.

“I’m sure Edinburgh’s lovely this time of year,” said Sherlock.

“Most of the year, it alternates between rainy and rainier. When I left, it was quite nice, though. Warm.” He sipped his coffee. “How are you getting along with your parents?”

“All right. They’re giving me space. I’ve taken up boxing.”

“Really? I didn’t know you liked any sports.”

“I boxed at Cambridge for a bit. It helped with… lots of things.”

“Good.” He binned his cup. “Healthy coping method. Shall we walk some more?”

They walked along the promenade, talking of ordinary things. As John described school and Edinburgh and his plans, Sherlock found himself wondering how well he actually knew the person walking beside him. _Back then,_ he thought — _what did they talk about?_ He supposed they’d talked about school. And sex. Well, they were kids then, and what do kids know? Kids think about sex, dream about sex, talk about sex, try to have sex… But they must have had actual conversations about something other than sex.

He remembered talking about what idiots some of their classmates were and which teachers were uncompromising unreasonable bastards. Well, no. That was mostly what Sherlock talked about.

_We talked about books_. Yes, he was sure of that. Sherlock had read all the books John’s English lit class was reading, and they’d had conversations about Orwell and Chaucer and Shakespeare. He recalled telling John —

_I talked a lot_ , he realised. John mostly listened, asked questions, admired. _Wow, Sherlock, I never thought of that… Really? That’s amazing! … Can you help me, Sherlock? I have an essay to write about Macbeth… What’s dramatic irony?… Can you explain the difference between irony and satire again? … You’re brilliant!_

He’d basked in John’s admiration. He tried to remember whether he’d asked John questions, too, but couldn’t come up with anything. He hadn’t even asked John if he wanted to have sex. He just assumed it, pushed him gradually in that direction until there was no backing out.

“John,” he said. “Why do you want to be a doctor?”

“Well,” John said, cocking his head thoughtfully. “I don’t have a specific reason. I suppose it’s because I spent a lot of time in the Accident and Emergency Department when I was a kid. My dad — he drank, you see, and sometimes I didn’t do things… to his satisfaction. He had a temper. I had my arm broken when I was four — greenstick fracture — and broke my clavicle when I was five. When I was six I cut myself with a knife and it got infected. He refused to pay for a doctor until it got so bad my mum finally took me to the hospital. Harry, too. I think he beat her worse than me, so more than half of our visits were because she’d gotten hurt.”

“You… you were an abused child,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, I suppose I was. I liked watching the doctors work, seeing how they fixed things. They were always patient and didn’t yell or scold. They made jokes so I wouldn’t notice when the needle went in. I thought, if I could do that job, I’d come home feeling like a hero every day, knowing I made somebody hurt less.”

_John was physically abused. How did I not know this?_

He had known it. He’d seen the flat where his mother lived, so he knew they were poor. He’d even noticed the scar on John’s temple once, and just assumed he’d fallen out of a tree or crashed his bike or something. All kids have scars. And he’d seen what his stepfather did to him, the black eye. By then, John might have had enough and begun to fight back. He remembered the awe he felt when John described hitting his step-dad.

He’d known. He’d observed it all, but had somehow dismissed it as uninteresting, unimportant. _His_ John wasn’t that abused boy. That was all in the past, something that hadn’t concerned Sherlock.

Realising this made him feel a bit sick. _What an egocentric, arrogant idiot I was._

They stopped to eat at a little Chinese restaurant. Sherlock’s mother had given him money and instructed him to buy dinner for John, as if he were a child without manners. _Have I ever given her evidence to the contrary? Maybe it’s time to stop blaming her, blaming everyone else…_

“How long are you staying?” he asked over wonton soup.

“I have to leave Sunday. I’ve got a part-time job as a research assistant Mondays through Thursdays. Mostly I just enter data. Not very interesting, but it’s better than the roller rink or the movie theatre.”

“So we have Saturday and part of Sunday. Mummy expects you to stay with us.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m a poor student, happy to be put up in style by your mother.”

 

That night they lay in Sherlock’s bed on the second floor of his parents’ townhouse. Sherlock thought abut the Christmas when he’d watched John take the bus to Glasgow and head home. He remembered wanting to rescue John from his family and bring him home to London. _Not so much to rescue him,_ thought Sherlock. _I was bored and wanted him here, with me, so I wouldn’t have to deal with my family._ He remembered Mummy taking his car keys and saying _no._

“Your mother died,” he said. “I’m sorry. I should have said something sooner.”

“It’s been five years now,” John said. “It was in 1996, spring of my last year at Linden. Harry blamed me and we haven’t spoken since.”

“How could she blame you?”

“I don’t know. She was fou off her arse all the time then. Probably still is. You never met her.”

He recalled that Harry was not home when he met John’s mother. _Older sister, resentful of his status as the male heir._

John gave a short laugh. “Well, just because somebody’s related to you, doesn’t mean you’re going to be friends, yeah?”

“Agreed. Mycroft and I have never been anything like friends. When I was small, I suppose, I idolised him as my big brother, but adolescence put an end to that. He has not ceased his meddling since I was thirteen.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Now that both my parents are gone, Harry and I’ve only got each other for family. It’s a shame, really, that we don’t get along.” John pulled off his t-shirt and moved closer to Sherlock. “So. Are you interested in doing what we did last time we slept together?”

“I think it’s obvious, John, that we’re both _interested_. You see, but you do not observe.”

John giggled then — a glorious sound that Sherlock had longed to hear — and reached for him.

He remembered the first time with John, and every time after that. Their relationship had lasted four hundred and sixty-four days. Two hundred and seventy-seven of those days they had spent together. There were a few days when they hadn’t been intimate, either because one of them was sick or studying or something else got in the way, a roommate, for example. And there were days when they couldn’t get enough of each other — mouths, hands, cocks. He remembered every time, though. He couldn’t help it; that was how his brain worked.

He remembered the last time. Then he hadn’t known it might be the last time ever. That was the trouble with time. It gave no warnings.

Oh, how he’d missed this. His hands roamed over John’s body, remembering how he’d felt then, noticing the changes since that last time. John gasped when Sherlock’s fingers found his cock and wrapped around it. He moaned when Sherlock kissed his neck, nipping at his collarbone. Here was no boy, squirming beneath him. John’s hands gripped his arse, his fingers finding their way between. He groaned when John whispered, _I want you._

It was completely different from any of the previous times. It made sense; they were different people. Their bodies had become new collections of molecules (though laid in approximately the same configuration), Their perception and understanding had been modified by the stimuli and responses of all the days between then and now.

But when he felt John arch towards him, when he felt him stiffen and shudder and heard him cry out _Sherlock_ , it felt like the very first time. John’s release triggered his own and he came, feeling John’s arms around him. How he’d missed this.

The John who lay next to him now was a man, his body still tight and strong. It was a body that others had desired without Sherlock there to warn them away, a body that offered women things that had once belonged to Sherlock. Thinking about this, he could not quite feel jealous. These thoughts were like someone else’s dream, a memory of things that even when described could not be shared. He felt vaguely unsettled by them, but they were not his memories. They did not belong in his Mind Palace.

Sherlock stroked the strong bicep and kissed the nape of his neck. John hummed and turned over, pressing urgently against him. “Again,” he whispered.


	7. This Thing We Have

“Will I see you at Christmas? Do you think you’ll get some time off?” He tried not to sound anxious, eager, or too hopeful. All of which he was feeling. But sounding too-anything might not be good, not until he was more certain of what John wanted.

“I have to see Harry,” John replied. “Yeah, maybe I can get a couple days.”

It had been a year and a half since they’d reconnected. It was a relationship, Sherlock supposed. Having nothing to compare to, he did not know if they were _together_ or _friends with benefits_ or _long-distance lovers_ or something else. There were categories, perhaps, but he did not understand the nuances.

John was still living in Edinburgh, wading through the slough of medical training. They had seen each other five times. Sherlock was unsure whether this was enough to qualify as a relationship, but that was what John called it. _Now that_ w _e’re in a relationship…_ They’d seen each other just before the fall term began, spent the previous Christmas and Sherlock’s birthday in London. John came to London again over spring break, and Sherlock came to Edinburgh for John’s birthday in June. In August John had managed a short trip to London. That was how he mapped their relationship.

Their visits always started bashful and awkward, like lovers courting, but soon their bodies remembered and fell into a comfortable physicality of touches, and kisses, and sex. Then sweet goodbyes, but no promises.

And they emailed at least once a week. Hearing John’s voice was better, but hard to arrange with the very different hours they kept. Like pen-pals getting to know one another, they wrote out their days, the things they liked and hated, the things that made them angry or sad or confused, the things that made them laugh, and the things nobody else would understand.

John had friends who he met for a pint, mates who invited him over to watch the game, pals who exchanged jokes and favours with him, people who knew more about his life than Sherlock did. He guessed that John still went out with women, but they didn’t talk about that. That was John’s life.

But the two of them still had this _thing_ , this _let’s wait and see, maybe something more_. _Whatever we end up with._ He didn't know what to call what they'd had before, so this was even harder to name. He supposed they'd been _boyfriends_ , though that word hardly described the soul-consuming experience it had been. To Sherlock, it still felt that way. But he wasn't sure what John felt. John was cautious now. Maybe it didn't consume his soul as it did Sherlock's. Sherlock couldn't ask. He measured their future in weeks and sometimes months, but not years. It was too soon to think that far ahead.

John had ambition. He’d made a plan for his life, one he’d shared with Sherlock when they were at Linden. Now he’d checked off a few boxes and was counting down the days to the next checkmark.

Sherlock had begun to assemble an idea. He wasn’t a planner. That was John, with his lists and checkboxes. The idea was more like a canvas that he was adding paint to, little by little, like one of those pointillistic paintings. He possessed a native talent for observation and synthesis. To this he added specialised knowledge — chemistry, biology, physics; the effects of various poisons; the identifying characteristics of soils and ash; the composition of paints and solvents; the progress of rigor mortis; the degree of coagulation in a blood sample. The stages of death and decay.

He walked London in the day and at night, learning the streets and alleys, the locations of pawnshops and loan sharks, the patterns of activity in each area. He knew the train schedule, all the stops on the underground, and the best places to get a cab. He read old newspapers and studied unsolved crimes, learning what it takes to plan a murder and get away with it.

He began seeing things the police missed. His probation over, he got his computer back, and promptly hacked into the NSY server. He’d been caught before, and understood the mistakes he’d made. It wasn’t good to hack the police, not a bit, but his motives were pure, he felt. He simply wanted to learn, to know their system, figure out where it was not efficient or effective. He was just a programmer, observing a system that wasn’t optimal, solving problems.

Though not good with people, he learned who the best of NSY were and followed their cases. In this way, he got to know Greg Lestrade. Though at first the detective brushed Sherlock off as a fanboy with an unhealthy obsession, he noticed that the kid (who was twenty-five) made some fairly keen observations, and very often they were right.

Sherlock had found his goal: he would be a consulting detective, the only one in the world. He would solve crimes, helping the police when they got in over their heads. This happened a lot more often than most people would suspect.

He lived in a tiny, shabby flat on Montague Street. What he was making from his computer work and a few cases that didn’t merit police attention (finding things, mainly — jewellery, wills, cats, etc.), he pulled in enough to support himself, though occasionally his lights were shut off for non-payment. Lestrade didn’t pay him for consulting on police cases, but the experience gained him attention and referrals. He started to feel like an adult.

 

At the end of August, he fell and hurt his back. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t have been pursuing a suspect without backup, but the police were always so slow. Since the man was within reach, he went after him, and was thrown down a flight of stairs heading into the Underground. He’d felt a surge of pain and struggled to his feet. The man escaped. The pain was so intense that he went to the A&E, still cursing himself for an idiot.

Just a sprain, the doctor told him, and a lot of bruises. Seeing his history of drug abuse, the doctor prescribed an NSAID and ice, told him to take it easy for a few days. Five days later, he’d been unable to sleep and was in constant pain. If he went back, they’d probably prescribe physical therapy or something equally useless.

With his old connections, he managed to acquire enough oxycodone to get him through the healing. That began his slide back into drugs.

 

In December, John told him that he didn’t think he could make it for Christmas. Harry was having problems. She was older than John, a serious alcoholic for many years, and he feared that the physical realities of that addiction were catching up with her. He still felt guilty about his mother’s death, though Sherlock could see no reason why he should. John couldn’t have changed her life in any way that would have made a difference. A bus had killed her, not her neglectful son. But Harry’s words had burned her brother, and now he was doing penance.

“I’ll try to come up in January,” he said. “We can celebrate your birthday then.”

Sherlock didn’t care about birthdays or anniversaries. He knew exactly how many years, months, and days he’d been alive, and remembered a large number of those days. He didn’t need a dinner and a cake to celebrate still being alive. But John liked those things, John with his hand-lettered cards and small surprises.

“All right,” said Sherlock. He thought about ringing John up on Christmas, but decided it would be intrusive. John was preoccupied with his sister, trying to make it through school and pay his bills. Christmas had always been a stressful time in the Watson home, he knew from John’s stories. He didn’t need Sherlock bothering him right now.

His back was healed, but he was still taking the oxycodone, or whatever opioid he was able to acquire. Now that he wouldn’t be seeing John until January, he should try tapering off, he decided. Or maybe once Christmas was over. It might be easier then. They were legal drugs, not heroin, so it was probably safe to take a bit longer.

He didn’t hear from John over the holiday, other than a card with a short note scrawled on it, telling him that Harry had been released from the hospital and seemed to be doing better. He wished Sherlock a Happy Christmas and said he would call him on his birthday, January 6, though he couldn’t come up to London yet.

Christmas Day was spent with Mummy and Daddy and Mycroft. Precisely which level of hell it was, he could not pinpoint. He was almost out of pills, rationing them until he could find his dealer, who had suddenly become unavailable. _Should have stocked up for the holidays._ He listened to Mycroft drone on, venting his opinions on everything trivial. He tried to eat his mother’s sumptuous dinner. He watched his father disappear behind the newspaper.

For the duration of the visit, he continued to ration his stash, thinking he would wait until the holidays were over to start the withdrawal process. Three days after Christmas, he left his parents’ home and returned to Montague Street.

New Year’s Eve he was alone in his flat. He played his violin for a while, but it only made him feel sad. Instead, he sat with his eyes closed, remembering everything from the beginning.

 

It had been seven and a half years since they had slept in a bed together in Stornoway watching a terrible horror movie on a small telly in their hotel room. John wasn’t old enough to drink, but Sherlock had bought a bottle of champagne (in honour of John’s seventeenth birthday) and poured each of them a glass. _Here’s looking at you, kid,_ he’d said. The movie became funnier. They giggled as the dancers screamed and ran from the disco, the monster shuffling after them.

Five minutes later, John fell asleep in Sherlock’s arms. He remembered looking down at John, thinking, _You keep me right. You save me every day._

Serendipity was not something he believed in. The universe was really just one random thing causing another random thing, without any tendency towards good or evil. The fact that something good had happened, meeting John, for example, did not mean that good things would continue. Nor did it mean that every good thing brought something bad in its wake. Things that happened might be good for one person, bad for another. The universe didn’t care who got ahead or who got hurt. In its long arc, it bent impartially, every individual event insignificant in its contribution.

 _There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so._ John liked that quote, but he was a very balanced person, an optimist. The glass was always half full, every cloud had a silver lining, and there was an upside to anything that sent his friend into a sulk. Sherlock had never quite been able to think himself out of evil moods or into good ones. As soon as he began to react to something, it all started to unravel.

Once, when he was three, his family had taken a holiday at the seaside in Bude Haven. He, being hard-headed and defiant even then, had resisted all Mycroft’s attempts to hold his hand and had thus ended up in water over his knees. A wave hit him, knocking him down. He rolled helplessly as the waves pushed and pulled at him. He remembered the taste of salt water in his mouth, burning his throat, choking him, until Mycroft had pulled him into his arms and carried him away.

That was what he so often felt, the push and pull of emotion, as if it were a force outside of him that could easily pull him into deep water and drown him.

But John always kept him right. He evened things out — the good and the bad, taking it all in stride. He pulled him out of the waves.

_What will I do when you leave me?_

That long ago night, holding John in the bed, Sherlock imagined a day when all that he would have left of him were the small bits he kept in his memory, the photographs, and the little prism John had given to him. He thought about John saving up his money, wrapping his present in printer paper with stars and glitter for decoration, and writing the little note: _To Sherlock, from John Watson. Happy Christmas._ Such a small gift, but so appropriate. John Watson, though not luminous himself, seemed to have a peculiar ability to bend light and create brilliance.

“John,” he whispered, shaking him gently.

The boy hummed softly, stirring. He snuggled against Sherlock.

“Bunny, wake up.”

“Hm?” He opened his eyes and smiled as he saw Sherlock looking at him.

“I will always take care of you,” Sherlock said. “You know that, don’t you?”

Sleepily, he put his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “I know. I’ll take care of you, too.”

He remembered the feeling of John’s breath tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. “You know I would do anything for you. Anything.” He gently kissed him, and whispered, fiercely, “ _Anything._ ”

“And I would do anything for you,” John replied. There was no question in his voice. Sometimes the obvious needed to be said, and John never minded being the one to say it.

Sherlock held him tighter. “I promise I’ll never leave you. People look at us and see a couple of idiot kids, but I know this — I will never leave you. Do you believe me?”

John nodded. “I believe you. And I won’t leave you — not for anything.” The puzzled look had appeared. “Don’t worry, Sherlock. I’ll stay with you.”

“Promise me,” Sherlock said fiercely. “Promise me you won’t leave. No matter what.”

He remembered John laying his head on his chest. “I promise. No matter what.”

 

On that long ago night, he’d believed John.

John hadn’t left him at Cambridge — Sherlock had driven him away, Mycroft had kept him away. And he had returned. In spite of _I hate you,_ he came back because Sherlock needed him.

_If you need me, I’ll come. Whatever we end up with is more than I have now._

Now, he needed John, but maybe John didn’t need him. John had missed him, and told him _I love you_ , but sometimes he wondered if they felt the same thing for each other. John didn’t stumble through life; he took careful, measured steps and constantly took his bearings. Sherlock wasn’t the air John breathed. He was another factor to take into consideration.

He needed John. Having him back felt like rediscovering oxygen, and he feared that the intensity of his own need would drive John away.

He had agreed to _whatever we end up with_ because John seemed to need that flexibility. He (quite naturally) didn’t want to tie himself down while he was still putting his future together. Sherlock didn’t have the right to ask him for anything more defined.

It was a test, he decided. If he could make it through the week ahead, he would be all right. John would visit, they would talk, and maybe _whatever_ would take shape.


	8. Into the Deep

Looking at the last pill in his bottle, he thought of calling John. What could he say? _Sorry, I’m taking drugs again. Will you come visit me in rehab?_

It was the Sunday, the fourth of January. John had promised to call in two days, but Sherlock desperately needed to hear his voice. He picked up his phone once, looked at John’s picture, put it down. A half hour later, he almost pushed _call_ , then thought better of it. John was busy. Just two more days.

An hour later, he went out.

He couldn’t find his regular dealer, or the other one he sometimes used. He took the heroin a third dealer offered him, went home, and prepared to shoot up.

 

John called on his birthday. Sherlock felt no pain, chatted about the case he was helping Lestrade with, told him that Mummy and Daddy said hello, and that Mycroft was still insufferable.

“You’re okay, then?” John asked.

“I’m fine. I feel like I’m actually starting my life, figuring things out.”

“That’s great, Sherlock. I’m happy for you. Always knew that you would do something unique with that brilliant brain of yours.”

He warmed at the praise. He’d forgotten how much he loved it when John called him brilliant. “Look at you, John — you’re a junior doctor now. That’s something to be proud of.”

“Yeah, it’s tough, though. I was never a super student. Now I have to paddle harder to stay afloat.”

“You’ll be fine. You’ve always had what it takes. You work harder than anyone I know.”

John hesitated. “Thank you. Your opinion means a lot to me.” He laughed. “I remember how you used to call me an idiot all the time. Compared to you, of course, I was.”

 _Idiot._ Sherlock had always called him that at Linden. And other things. _Don’t be an idiot, Bunny. Pretty little fool. What goes on in that funny little brain of yours? Little idiot. My dear idiot._

“I call everyone idiots,” he said. “With you, it was always a term of endearment.”

He heard John chuckle. “Love you too, you git.”

 

In his best moments, he remembered that John still loved him.

He remembered that John would take _whatever we end up with_.

He remembered _How could I not fall in love with you?_

He remembered _Anything. Always. No matter what._

 

In his bitterest moments, he wondered if he was an item on John’s checklist.

_Reconnect with Sherlock — check._

_Have sex with Sherlock — check._

_Call Sherlock on holidays and his birthday — check._

_Make lifetime commitment to Sherlock — hold._

 

For a few weeks, he was able to conceal it. He talked to John on the phone, kept up his work with the police, and maintained his supply lines. The heroin often made him feel dull, so he started taking a bit of cocaine to heighten his focus.

Thus, he found himself in exactly the place where he’d been seven years earlier. This time, however, there was no one to bother him about it. Lestrade occasionally gave him a sharp look, but said nothing. Mycroft hadn’t noticed anything; he seemed to have relaxed his vigilance. John emailed; they talked on the phone sometimes, but he was busier than ever with his responsibilities as a junior doctor, and his sister was giving him problems as well. Like Mycroft and his parents, John assumed Sherlock was all right.

And he was. As a chemist (he had studied enough that he could have had a PhD by now — if he’d wanted to), he understood the effects of these drugs better than when he’d first discovered their uses. He accepted that his brain chemistry was different from other people’s. Why else were people always telling him he was a freak? He was atypical, neurologically. It was no different from a diabetic’s routine need for insulin, and sometimes a dose of sugar to even things out if too much insulin was present. It was no different than giving a child Ritalin for ADD or prescribing Lipitor to an adult with high cholesterol. Drugs were meant to be useful. It was only the law that demanded a hard line between certain drugs and certain other drugs.

 _Alcohol was worse_ , he thought as he dropped his cigarette onto the pavement and crushed it under his boot. People ruined their lives with alcohol — and it was perfectly legal. Health insurance might even pay for a liver transplant, if you had the right contacts.

Thinking about John made him feel guilty. The first time he’d experimented with drugs, he’d ended up freaking out the night before his chemistry final, shooting heroin to calm down, sleeping through the test. He’d frightened John, and found himself in rehab for the first time, at the mercy of Mycroft.

The second time, he just drifted back into it. There wasn’t anything stopping him, and he couldn’t think of any reason to resist. It was always there. One random thing inevitably leading to another, which led to another, and here it was, the solution to a problem he hadn’t really tried to solve.

And then John came back, and now he had a very good reason to stay clean. Even so, he hadn’t. Maybe nothing was enough to change him. He was defective.

But this time, his third foray into drugs, was different. Now he had it under control, though he was fairly sure John would not see it that way. There was no point in trying to explain. He didn’t want John to leave, so he would have to conceal it. They would see each other in June, for John’s birthday. By then, he could probably taper off enough that John wouldn’t notice. He could get some oxycodone to replace the heroin, put the pills in a paracetamol bottle. The cocaine was never as big a problem as opioids in withdrawal, in his experience. He could probably go without for a few days.

 

When John unexpectedly showed up on Valentine’s Day, he had just shot up. He’d been awake for three days, working on a case. Once it was solved, he could not come down and paced the small flat, unable to rest. Finally, he gave in, took the heroin, and gratefully crashed in his chair, the needle, spoon, and lighter still on the table, the rubber hose still around his arm. He woke up a few hours later to a very angry John.

“What the fuck!” Those were his first words. His second words: “Bloody fucking hell, Sherlock!”

Sherlock reminded John that an addict can’t make promises. He reminded him that his brain chemistry was atypical, similar to a person with ADD or depression or bipolar disorder in that it required chemicals to balance it. He explained that he understood the dosing and was being very careful to regulate the amount he took.

John said, “You’re an idiot. And I don’t mean that as a term of endearment.” He added, “Don’t do this to yourself. I’ll help you through rehab. Please, Sherlock.” His eyes filled with tears. “Please.”

Sherlock almost gave in. Then he remembered what it was like to live in his brain and how nobody understood and how John was always a bit self-righteous about drugs, for someone whose family tree was full of alcoholics.

He dug his heels in. “I don’t need rehab. I am functioning well.”

John looked sad. “I said I would be happy with whatever we ended up with. But I can’t accept that you’re killing yourself. That’s just — I’m done, Sherlock.”

Further arguments would have been rebuffed. Sherlock said nothing, and John left.

At that point, there was no reason for him to stop, nor any reason to live. It went downhill quickly from there. He stopped calling Lestrade, told Mycroft to go to hell, and by summer had lost his flat and was living out of the bins behind restaurants and sleeping in boxes in alleys.

It was months later when he realised his mistake.

 

He’d managed to elude Mycroft’s agents. When you’re homeless, it’s easy not to get attached to a particular box or alley. He moved around, observing a different side of the city — when he wasn’t too high to take note of things.

By the time he was on the streets, the weather was warm. It felt very bohemian and transcendental to live from hand to mouth, or from syringe to vein. He felt self-reliant, no longer bound by irrational law and social convention. He met people in similar circumstances, listened to their stories, and made up stories of his own for their amusement.

He did things for money that he would never be able to admit to John. He spent that money on drugs, went to soup kitchens and food pantries for free food. These things were already there, he rationalised, for those who needed them. He took nothing away from another person. He demanded nothing as a right, needed no one to bless him.

He sometimes missed the work.

He always missed John.

 

In Edinburgh, John turned twenty-five.

Sherlock remembered the cliffs. 1995. John was seventeen then.

 

_John lay on his belly and looked down into the water, thirty meters below them. Sherlock was at his side, also looking down. “What do you think?” John asked._

_“Folklore says that jumping off this cliff is good luck,” Sherlock said. “Jumping with another person means that you are bound for life, for better or worse. Are you willing to be bound to me?”_

_“It’s a long way down.”_

_“Not as long as the life we’ll live together,” Sherlock said._

_“That was poetic,” John said. “Is this a proposal?”_

_“Yes, my sweeting. I plight thee my troth. In perpetuity.”_

_John giggled. “Forsooth, thou art my rogue, my rascal, my rapscallion. In perpetuity.”_

_He pulled John to his feet and kissed him. “Ready, then?”_

_They stood and backed away from the cliff, holding hands, their breath quickening. A few people had died, they’d heard, by not leaping out far enough, crashing into the cliff as they fell._

_They looked at one another, grey eyes into blue eyes, and nodded._

_“Go!”_

_When they reached the edge, still holding hands, they leapt out, feet pedalling, hands letting go, arms windmilling. It was like flying, Sherlock thought, stretching his arms out. It was like eternity._

_The water rose up as they felt the wind rush by them. Preparing for impact, they straightened out and entered, feet first, arms above._

_For a long moment, all was dark and quiet. Cold water closed around them. Sherlock felt himself slowly rising through the indigo darkness towards the light, but did nothing to hurry his ascent._

_If this is what dying feels like, he thought, maybe it’s not so bad…_

_Perhaps the whole point of life is that we are losing it so slowly that we don’t notice… that each minute we lose another piece… the light comes closer… we take another breathe… and we forget we’re dying…_

_His lungs began to ache. The need to live, to breathe, screamed in his ears. For a moment he wondered what would happen if he refused to ascend, if he just let himself sink into the depths. What would that feel like?_

_He kicked his legs, moved his arms. He rose. He heard a voice…_

_“Sherlock!” John was screaming. “Where are you?”_

_Coming out at the top, he sucked in life, taking the deepest breath he’d ever drawn. He saw John swimming towards him and suddenly felt glad to be alive._

_They hugged when they met, shivering in the icy waves. Above, the cliffs rose up, impossibly ancient. Around them, the North Atlantic heaved._

_“I thought you were knocked out, that you’d hit a rock—” John gasped, holding him tightly. “I thought…” He gave a little sob._

_“Till death do us part,” said Sherlock._

 

It was only when it started getting cold again that he began to see that it really wasn’t romantic at all living on the discarded, day-old pickings of those who still worked for a living and threw away more than enough to feed the hungry street-dwellers. It was, in reality, boring.

With only survival to occupy his brain, he found himself needing more and more drugs.

The first really cold night, he huddled into a box, wrapping a jacket around him that he’d obtained from a charity store. He shivered still, wondering where his next fix would come from, and that was when he saw John.

Not real-life John, the medical student who was angry with him. Not the John who was patiently waiting for him to get his shit together so that he could check off another box on his life list. The John who crept into his box was sixteen-year-old John, the boy who loved him unconditionally.

 _What are you doing out here?_ the boy asked him.

“Living,” he answered. “I’m living in a world that doesn’t tolerate freaks.”

 _You’re living in a cardboard box,_ John said. _You’re not a freak, you’re just a tramp, a homeless drug addict. There are thousands like you._

“I’m a man of nature,” he replied. “I sleep under the stars, eat what I find, and urinate wherever I want. It’s so much more real than mattresses and flush toilets.”

 _Please stop this. It’s natural to die, too, but I don’t want you to die, not like this._ Vapour came out of John’s mouth when he said this. Or maybe it was Sherlock who was panting, creating that cloud.

“You’re an hallucination,” Sherlock pointed out. “Why should I listen to you?”

Hallucination John put his arms around him. Sherlock could almost feel his gymnast’s muscles, hear his faithful heart beating, feel his breath on his neck. He whispered in Sherlock’s ear. _Because I love you. You’re special. I was so in awe of you, I was so afraid you’d leave me one day._

“I never would—” he began, but before he could say the words, he knew he was lying. He _had_ left John. He’d left him behind the first time he did a line of cocaine, the first time he shot heroin into the crook of his elbow. He’d left him standing cold and wet in a parking lot at Cambridge. “Why are you here?”

_To take care of you, to bring you back to me. Don’t you see? You were everything to me. You were the sun, the moon, the stars—._

“I was the fucking solar system,” he replied. “Yes, I understand now that we’re going around the sun. Everything does not revolve around me. So what? If you care so much, why did you say you were done with me?”

Tears filled Sherlock’s eyes. He noticed that John was lovely, a small boy with blond hair that needed a trim looking at him with eyes as deep and quiet as the solar system. He missed this John, his innocent face and kissable mouth. He wanted to bury himself in that small body until it was 1994 again and he could fix everything. “Why do you love me, John?”

John’s lips hovered over his. _No one ever wanted me before_. The words floated in the space between them, a vapour in the cold air. _I love you because you chose me._

“Bunny,” he whispered. “I want you. Please stay with me.”

_I would die for you. Please don’t die for nothing._

When he woke up, he was alone.


	9. Triggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rising to the surface.

He was in a hospital bed. _How did I get here?_

Lestrade was looking at him. “You’re an idiot,” he said.

He nodded. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

_John was going to call._ No, John had left him. “What year is this?”

Lestrade gave a short laugh. “2004. Happy New Year.”

“The date?”

“January 6. Happy Birthday.”

“Where’s my phone?”

Lestrade smirked a bit. “You didn’t have a phone. Seeing as how you’ve been missing for the better part of a year, I think it’s likely that you sold it for drugs.”

“I need to call someone — a friend.”

“ _I’m_ your friend, Sherlock. I found you — lying in an alley in a pool of your own vomit. It’s lucky you didn’t choke and die. That heroin you took was cut with something, don’t know what yet, but I’ve seen a few and they’re all dead. You’re alive, you lucky bastard. I called the ambulance, rode with you, and waited until you were okay. I even called your mother. That was Sunday, two days ago. I stopped by yesterday, but you were still out. And here I am again, God knows why.”

“I guess I should thank you. What you did was… I mean, thank you.”

Lestrade sighed and leaned forward in his chair, his hands gripping a styrofoam coffee cup. “Sherlock, listen to me. You’re the smartest person I know. You have a gift. Don’t do this to yourself. Get some help.”

“I’ve had help. Twice already. If you’re not an addict, you can’t understand what it’s like.”

“People do overcome it, you know,” Lestrade said. “It isn’t easy, but you don’t have to do this alone. Join a support group. See a therapist. Get yourself a few friends.”

_I need John. John can keep me right. But I can’t ask him. He has a life and doesn’t need an addict ruining it. I need him, but he doesn’t need me. He’ll think I’m weak because I can’t fix myself. I can’t ask him for help. He told me he was done._

“When you get out of rehab, look me up again,” Lestrade said. “I’ll work with you if you’re clean. But it’ll be my badge if I involve you in a case while you’re using.”

 

He tried to sleep, but the hospital was bright and noisy, and now he was beginning to itch and feel restless. He got up to use the loo, looked at himself in the mirror, and almost didn’t recognise the man staring back at him. _Dark, hollow eyes, sunken cheeks. Hair wild, long overdue for a trim_. He looked down at his arms and saw the tracks.

A knock on the door, and John was standing there, looking at him, seeing everything. His face was guarded, just a trace of a smile on his lips, but his eyes were serious. “Happy Birthday,” he said.

Sherlock’s first impulse was to reach out and put his arms around him, but something in John’s face stopped him. “I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his eyes from the intense blue gaze.

Feeling nauseous, he slipped back into the bed. John sat in the chair beside him.

“What was it this time, hm?”

“I was… doing well, until I hurt my back and they couldn’t give me anything that worked for the pain. I got a few pills from… an acquaintance, thinking… well, _not_ thinking, I suppose. I should have known…”

“You should have gone back to the doctor, asked for something stronger. There are things they might have tried.”

Sherlock shrugged hopelessly. “I’ve tried what they would have offered. Doesn’t work.”

“You might have called me.”

“I didn’t want to be a nuisance.”

John said nothing. They sat in silence for several minutes.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” John said at last. “It’s been nearly a year since we talked. You refused to go to rehab and I told you that I was done.”

_This is it. He’s leaving me._ “I’m sorry, John. I promise I’ll go through rehab.” _Don’t leave me._

John sighed. “Do you think you’re the only one who has demons?”

For a minute, he couldn’t figure out what John meant. Sherlock had worked his entire life to understand his own demons — the triggers that led to bad things. He’d learned to control most of them. He’d tried to self-medicate the ones he couldn’t control, but that hadn’t helped. He had taken up boxing, tried nicotine and alcohol, devoted himself to detective work, all of which helped, but in the face of real pain, he’d slipped.

John couldn’t have demons like that. John’s brain worked the way it was supposed to — slower than Sherlock’s, but still normal. He ate, slept, and talked with people like a normal person. He was Sherlock’s barometer of normal.

_It was just a slip. One mistake. I can fix it this time._ He couldn’t say any of these things to John. “I’m sorry.”

John sighed and stood up. Leaning down, he kissed Sherlock lightly. “I love you, but I don’t think I can fix you. You need to fix yourself, somehow. I don’t think I can be with you until that happens.”

He walked out the door. This time, there was nothing Sherlock could say.

 

Rehab was six months. This time Mycroft found a place in the country, an elegant old estate fully staffed with nurses and doctors. He wasn’t allowed any visitors or phone calls. He knew that Mycroft was keeping tabs on his progress, but he didn’t talk to him or his parents. It was part of the program, they said. He wasn’t sure how isolating himself from all his triggers would help him learn to deal with them, but he didn’t have any choice now. He had to succeed this time.

Of course, an addict’s success lasts only one day. The next day, the journey starts again.

He went to group therapy, but found it hard to talk. The people in recovery kept reciting platitudes, as if well-meant words could change anything. _You already are what you are looking for. Don’t let the past steal your present. Success is the result of small efforts, repeated day in and day out._

He played his violin, though it was hard to find something to play that didn’t evoke memories. Most of his memories made him sad. He’d always used his violin to purge those feelings; now it just seemed to bring them to the surface.

He wished that there was somebody real to talk to, someone who wasn’t paid to listen to addicts. Someone who hadn’t been put here by loved ones or come here as a last resort. What good was any of this going to do him in the real world, where drugs were on every corner, and even the best day came with sensory overload? He imagined little sticky notes with hopeful sayings scattered around his flat, reminding him that _today is the first day of the rest of your life!_

Several times a week, he had an individual session with Dr Godwin, a psychiatrist specialising in addiction.

“It’s my brain,” he told the doctor. “I was just trying to get it to work properly.”

“What do you mean by _properly_?”

“When I was small, they told my parents I was autistic. I’m not sure if I was or am, but I know that I am neuro-atypical. I bounce between boredom and overstimulation, unable to cope with either. I want to bang my head on things, shoot things — my mind is never quiet. When I’m working on something, I can’t stop to eat or sleep. I can’t ever let go.”

Godwin looked at him thoughtfully. “I’ve read your file. Clearly you have high intelligence, genius level. You have specialised interests, which is typical of Aspergers. You did not speak early, but when you did, you were fluent. Typically, even adults with Aspergers have a different cadence when they speak. I don’t hear that in your speech. There is no indication that you had any motor delays or problems. As for poor social skills, another hallmark of the syndrome—”

“I am known for my poor social skills. Rudeness is the hallmark of Sherlock Holmes.”

Godwin smiled. “In you, asociability seems more like a personal trait than a brain disorder. I see you as a person who is not outgoing, who uses poor social skills as a coping mechanism. It’s easier to say _I hate people_ than _People hate me._ You do seem anxious and depressed, but there are many causes for those.”

“I suppose.” _Am I anxious? Depressed?_ He tried to remember a time when he hadn’t felt like an outcast, when people hadn’t said cruel things to him. Anxiety and depression were his constant companions.

“Do you have any close relationships? Is there anyone you would call a friend, not simply an acquaintance?”

He thought for a moment. Lestrade had called himself a friend, but he was more of a mentor. “I have only one friend.” _John._

“A friend can be a great source of comfort and support.”

“I have to do this myself.”

“Of course. People with addictions typically alienate family and friends, making it harder to recover, leading them right back to the problems that led them to addiction. I’m just suggesting that reaching out to people is not a sign of weakness. You don’t want to make them responsible for your recovery, but if you have a friend, let them know you appreciate them. Thanking people not only helps maintain relationships, it can also help you forgive yourself.”

 

_Dear John,_

_I have been in rehab for several months and am soon to be released. I just wanted to you know that I do not expect anything from you. You told me you could not see me until I was clean, and you are probably not ready to trust that I will in fact stay clean, so I will leave it to you to decide if and when you are ready to see me._

_I appreciate all you have done for me._

_Sherlock._

 

He folded the letter and put it in the bottom of his suitcase. It wasn’t what he really wanted to say. He wasn’t ready to say that.

 

In August, he went home. He’d lost his lease on the Montague Street flat and had to move back in with his parents, which meant he was outside of London.

 

_Dear John,_

_I am finally out of rehab. Currently I’m living with my parents in Kent._

_You told me you could not see me until I was clean. I have not used since January 4_ _ th _ _of this year, but you are probably not ready to trust that I will in fact stay clean, so I will leave it to you to decide_ _if and_ _when you are ready to see me._

_I’m writing this letter not to ask you for anything, but just to say I appreciate all you have done for me. I have not always been a good friend, but I hope to do better._

_Your friend,_

_Sherlock_

 

He folded the letter and put it with the other one, in the bottom of his suitcase.

 

Mycroft came home to see him.

“I need a place to live in London,” Sherlock told him. “I want to go back to work.”

“I’m not sure you should be living on your own, brother.”

“I’ve always been alone, Mycroft. I might as well get used to it again. A flatmate is not going to protect me from myself.”

“No, but it might be nice to have another person around.”

Sherlock snorted. “Why?”

Mycroft smiled. “Though you’re not a social creature, neither are you as solitary as you think you are.”

“I will be fine.”

“Well, the old neighbourhood won’t do. I’m afraid you’ll need something in an area with fewer… triggers.”

“There is no neighbourhood in London that is free of triggers,” replied Sherlock. “I am prepared to deal with temptation.”

“Very well. I will look for something suitable.”

Sherlock thought about thanking him. Dr Godwin had stressed the importance of gratitude in healing. _What would I thank Mycroft for? Putting me in a mental institution? Lying to John? Telling him that I’m a sociopath?_

“Have you talked to John yet?” Mycroft asked.

His gut clenched. “No.”

“Are you planning to get in touch, let him know you’re out?”

“I don’t— there’s no point, really. He’s busy. And now that I’ve been through my third rehab, he won’t easily trust me. He would rather not see me, I think.”

“Why not let him decide? At least let him know you’re home.”

“I’ll think about it. He’s still in school. I’m sure he’s busy.”

“He’s moved to London, you know. He’ll start at Bart’s in September, training as a surgeon.”

 

_Dear John,_

_I have been home for a few weeks now and will soon be moving back to London. I’ll send you my address when I move. It would be nice to hear your voice. I meant to call on your birthday, but I was still in rehab and not permitted any phone calls. I feel good now, and am ready to get back to work._

_I want to apologise for all I’ve put you through. You have been a good friend to me, and I have not told you how much I appreciate that. I am truly sorry that I’ve hurt you. If you are willing to see me again, I will try to be a better friend to you. I miss you._

_Love,_

_Sherlock_

 

He put the letter with the others, in the bottom of the suitcase he still hadn’t unpacked.

 

He moved into a larger flat, this time on Gower Street. It was more space than he really needed, but Mycroft was still holding out hope that he would find a flatmate. He would need an area to meet clients and a lab. He decided to turn the extra bedroom into a laboratory. The sitting area was large enough to hold two chairs.

As he was stowing boxes in his bedroom closet, he found one that had been sealed with tape. He knew instantly what was inside of it.

He let the box sit on the chest of drawers for several days, then shoved it up onto the shelf in the closet.

He set up his lab, thought about work. His client base was gone. He would have to start from scratch, painful as that would be.

He’d called Lestrade, asking if he had any cases. He gave him a couple of cold cases to look at. “Good to hear from you, Sherlock,” he said, and sounded like he meant it.

 

On New Year’s Eve, he was surfing the internet, looking at crime news, trying to catch up on what had happened in the two years he’d been gone. Two entire years that had become a vacuum, sucking up everything he’d worked for.

After a couple hours in bed, he got up, unable to sleep. He lit a cigarette, smoked in the dark. It was raining and he could hear bells ringing all over the city. _A new year, another chance. Don’t fuck it up_.

The box stared down at him from its high shelf. With a sigh, he pulled it down, set it on the bed, and slit the tape. Without looking inside, he overturned the box and let its contents fall out.

The little prism John gave him for Christmas. The hand-lettered card: _To Sherlock. From John Watson. Happy Christmas!_ The CD they used to make out to, lying in John’s bed. Notes John had left on his door. _Meet me at dinner. I’m in my room. Where are you? Come to the library._ The book of ghost stories they’d read under the covers, using a flashlight like little kids. The first draft of a paper John had written, with Sherlock’s caustic markup in the margin: _Seriously? I think you’ve missed the point here. If you ever had a point._ A sonnet he’d written for John, but was too embarrassed to show him. A graduation program. Tartan pants, a souvenir of their trip to Scotland.

Photos spilled out onto the bed. Pictures John had taken at his graduation and the summer after when they went to Scotland, visiting the standing stones at Calanais, jumping off the cliffs at Barra. Sherlock with his arm possessively around John’s shoulders. John asleep on the boat. Sherlock waking up in the hotel, his hair a mess, frowning at the camera. A picture from school: John’s back, where Sherlock had written: _Property of Sherlock Holmes_. Sherlock, sitting on his motorcycle. Another, leaning against his Jaguar, cigarette between his fingers. A picture of John in the leather jacket Sherlock gave him. A selfie, both of them making ridiculous faces. A selfie, Sherlock kissing the side of John’s face, John grinning with his eyes squeezed shut.

He was startled when his vision blurred. Rubbing his eyes, he realised that he was crying. A collection of junk from nine, ten years ago had reduced him to tears. Sentiment was truly on the losing side this time, since he was here, alone on New Year’s Eve, a three-time loser to drugs. No job, no friends, and John was in London, but somewhere else, probably having a good time, not thinking of Sherlock or remembering the one and only New Year’s Eve they’d spent together.

He heard his phone buzz. Assuming it was Mycroft (probably hard at work in his home office, scheming and dreaming of assassinations and the toppling of governments), he scrabbled in the bedclothes to find it and turn it off.

Then he saw the name: John Watson.

“John!” he said breathlessly. His heart was pounding.

“Sherlock.” A giggle. “Happy New Year.”

“John? Are you all right?”

“I’m… good. Yeah. Jus’ thought I’d see how… Jus’ thought…”

_Pissed_. More intoxicated than Sherlock had ever heard him. He’d introduced John to all kinds of liquor, probably not a good idea for a sixteen year old, but the boy had never really taken to it.

“John, you’ve been drinking.”

“Erm. Good… good on you… good deducing… erm… deduction…”

“Are you at a party?” He didn’t hear any background noise, but maybe everyone else was passed out.

“Party, no. Just me. Havin’ a blast.”

He didn’t know what to say to this John Watson, a drunk man alone on New Year’s Eve. “You shouldn’t be alone, John. Why don’t you call a friend?”

“Jus’ did. You. We still friends?”

“Of course we’re friends. I should have called you when I got out of rehab, only… I wasn’t sure you wanted to see me.”

“I’m mad about you,” John said. “Mad at you.”

“I’m sorry, John. I’m truly sorry.” He thought of the letters, the things he’d tried to say, but the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth.

He heard a snuffle. John was crying. “You. You broke my heart.”

“Oh, Bunny. I didn’t mean—”

“I love you, and you broke my heart.”

“I love you, too, John. I’m going to stay clean this time — for you. I want you back — us, together. I miss you so much…”

He heard John softly sobbing.

“John, I love you. Please, say something.”

_Call ended._


	10. Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally turns the corner.

1 January 2005

 

_John, we talked last night. Are you all right? SH_

 

Fine. Just a bit hungover. JW

 

_It was good to hear your voice. SH_

 

I wish I remembered. Lol. JW

 

_Maybe we could talk again. SH_

_Or visit. It’s been a long time. SH_

 

Yeah, it has. JW

 

_Mycroft says you’re in London. I could meet you wherever you want. SH_

_My schedule is far from full at this point. SH_

 

Not sure if that’s a good idea. JW

 

_Just a visit. Two friends, catching up. SH_

_No expectations. SH_

 

Let me think about it. I was pretty drunk last night. JW

If I said something, just forget it. JW

 

_Well, call me. SH_

_When you’re not busy. SH_

 

Ok JW

 

He didn’t hear from John.

Lestrade called him often enough to keep him from going completely insane, but not often enough to keep boredom away. He took every case he could, even when it involved a missing necklace or a lost cat. Or astronomy. He charged for his services, and he paid his bills. Sometimes he didn’t eat much, but his lights were never turned off.

In his free hours he kept himself occupied — playing his violin, working on experiments, reading the newspaper, surfing the internet. He turned on the telly just to make it seem as if someone was in the flat with him. In his life, he had never found being alone so lonely.

His craving for drugs was not gone, but at least submerged. The worst moments were when it was midnight and he was bored and started thinking about John. At those times, when his cravings popped to the surface, he picked up his violin and played for hours, letting the sadness overwhelm him. He would be addicted to sadness if he could not have drugs. Every time he was able to say no, he reminded himself that John deserved his best.

If only John would call.

Often, he thought about the two conversations he’d had with John at New Year’s. The drunken call had both terrified and electrified him. He had never known John to drink so much. What could it mean? He’d said he was alone. Could he be unhappy? Generally drinking took two forms: People who drink with friends are sociable; people who drink alone are unhappy. So, John was unhappy.

But lots of people get drunk on December 31. That date and the World Cup Finals were the major drinking holidays in the UK. _So, maybe he drank too much, started thinking about the past, and became maudlin_. Drinking either made people ridiculously happy or ridiculously sad. The advent of the New Year being a time for reflection, he might have been thinking about that New Year’s Eve they spent together and felt sad, remembering what they’d meant to one another. _Nostalgia_.

But why had John taken such a huge step back, after admitting he loved him? In their text messages the following morning, he’d all but broken off with Sherlock. If he really had some feelings for him, why had he then said _just forget it_?

Was this an isolated event, or did John drink often? His sister was an alcoholic, and he’d admitted that his only memories of his father were of a man sitting in a chair with a glass of scotch in his hand, staring vacantly at the telly. If, as some suggested, people could be genetically predisposed to alcoholism, perhaps John was drinking to deal with the stresses of his medical training.

But John was a sensible, serious person. Even when not physically present, he’d been the hand on Sherlock’s arm, restraining him from saying or doing things better left unsaid, undone. He hated that Sherlock had taken drugs. He hated that his sister drank. He had plans, a future laid out ahead of him. How could he, strong-willed and realistic as he was, become a serious drinker? It was disturbing to think of John, drinking to deal with—

_Do you think you’re the only one who has demons?_

He hadn’t understood this when John said it, but now he wondered. He’d known John ten years ago, and now he suspected that he really hadn’t known him at all. _What were John’s demons?_ Here was a mystery he desperately needed to solve.

His childhood of abuse, certainly. Sherlock knew from experience that you can’t just forget things that happen, how people treat you, and feeling unloved. John was physically abused by his father, whom he should have been able to trust, who should have protected him from other demons. His mother had apparently allowed it to happen. Indifference was also a kind of abuse. So, his parents might be partly to blame.

His mother’s death. Harry had blamed him, he said. Perhaps he blamed himself, not for her death, but for leaving, not sticking around when he might have helped. He had ambition, and his mother had pushed him out of the nest. Or she hadn’t cared that he left. Harry saw it as favouritism, and was angry. This was nearly ten years ago. How much damage had this done to John?

His sister’s accusations and her alcoholism. Reliving his father’s addictions with his sister had to be painful. Trying to care for someone who doesn't want to be cared for, even worse. Having that person accuse you of being the one who caused your mother’s death, crushing. After his mother died, he had tried to save Harry. If the past was any guide, she’d abused him and rejected his efforts.

_Addicts always find someone to blame_. Sherlock himself had blamed everyone but the person responsible for his drug abuse. He’d blamed his parents, his brother, other kids who taunted and bullied him, the schools that had let it happen, the curriculum that hadn’t let him pursue what he was good at. He’d blamed Victor, too, especially him. He’d been a demon who used other people. But Sherlock had been ready to be used. Victor was just an accessory to his own actions.

Pandora’s box, now open, released all that he’d kept inside. Here were stored so many things he didn’t want to look at or think about. Things he’d said to John, times when he’d carelessly insulted him or let him down, assuming that it was all right, that John would still love him. He’d had a kind of power over the boy that was addictive. The more he controlled him, the more control he’d wanted.

_I am one of John’s demons_.

This thought crossed the centre line and crashed head-on into his mind. A blinding flash of realisation, and he found himself staring at the wreckage of his fond memories. What he’d done to John was heinous. He’d pursued him and had sex with him — sex that was, if he was honest with himself, barely consensual. He’d seen an innocent, perfect boy that he could use — that had been his plan. He saw it clearly now — John’s naive adoration, his own abusive possessiveness. A perfect co-dependency of victim and abuser.

To make it worse, John had already been abused before they’d met— and Sherlock had never noticed. Sherlock had never asked, never wondered, never cared. That might have been the final blow for John, when he at last understood that Sherlock cared only for himself. That might have been the moment when John said _I’m done._

He saw what he had done. Undoubtedly, he had damaged John. He’d bullied him and possessed him and, worst of all, abandoned him and chosen drugs. He hadn’t given John a choice; the boy had been too young to consent, maybe too broken and unloved to say no.

He remembered how often John had called him while he was at Cambridge. Sherlock had kept him in the dark, avoided him, let his return calls become more and more infrequent. He remembered how John’s voice sounded in the messages he’d left — sad, desperate, worried. He’d put John off because he was overwhelmed, and he knew John wouldn’t approve of the drugs he was taking. He hadn’t thought about what this was doing to John. He’d let himself sink beneath the waves, unaware that he’d almost dragged John down with him.

Mycroft had warned him, a year earlier, that he might ruin John. He had called Sherlock a sociopath and told him that it wasn’t right to lead the boy on. _John loves you_ , he’d said. _It would be kinder if you broke it off._ But at that point, when they had been together less than a year, he hadn’t yet achieved what he was aiming at: he had not yet gained complete control over the boy. Sherlock was not about to stop. He would own the boy.

A sociopath. Incapable of love. Capable only of manipulation, deceit, abuse.

Perfect John, popular John. That cute, kissable face. That beautiful smile, that glorious giggle. Nobody had ever hated John Watson. Nobody insulted him, nobody waited outside to jump him and beat him up. Small and unimposing. Compact and indestructible. Sherlock had loved grabbing that little body and holding it for ransom — for a snog or sex. It made him feel powerful, pinning down those struggling limbs, sitting on top of that small torso. He loved knowing that John couldn’t resist him.

That night, the night he claimed his boy. For weeks, he’d been pushing John, persuading him little by little to do what Sherlock wanted. Promising it wouldn’t hurt, he said would take care of him.

He remembered John’s small, tight body moving under his. It was the body of a gymnast then, a boy who spent hours honing his floor exercises. Small, perfectly formed, deceptively strong. He’d wanted that body for a long time; he’d been patient, prepared to acquire it slowly.

The night he’d finally pushed John all the way, he’d prepared him. _You said you would do it,_ he reminded the boy. _I promise, I won’t hurt you. You’ll like it._ John was nervous, tight. He said _wait._ Sherlock pushed, three fingers. John said, _wait._ But Sherlock couldn’t wait. More lube. _So tight, so close_. When he began to enter him, John said, _wait._

He couldn’t stop. He felt John tremble under his hands. _Shhh,_ he said to him. _It’s all right_. _You said I could. You promised._ He stopped his mouth with kisses, thrusting deeper inside him. Then the sweet, shuddering release.

Afterwards, John kissed him and said he loved him. And Sherlock held him in his arms and said, _you’re mine, I’ll always take care of you._ And John believed him. Like an abused child, he clung to his abuser as if he were his saviour.

_Dear God_. Had he really been such a predator? What could be the aftermath of being forced into a relationship with a sociopath? It was kidnapping, brainwashing, coercion, maybe even rape. Had John realised afterwards what Sherlock had done to him? Had he despised Sherlock? He should have.

But he hadn’t.

He came back once. _I still love you_.

He came back again. _I can’t accept that you’re killing yourself._

He came back again. _I love you, but I don’t think I can fix you._

And he called, drunk — not to tell him that he hated him, but to say _you broke my heart. I love you, and you broke my heart._

_I love you._ Not _loved,_ not past tense _._

_Love. I love you._ Present tense.

He had never owned John Watson. But maybe he had loved him.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered to the pictures. “I didn’t know it then, but I loved you the first time I saw you. I loved you every time you came back. Each time I lost you, I still loved you. I’ve never loved anyone but you.”

Before he could talk himself out of it, he took out his phone and texted:

_Hope you’re doing okay. SH._

There was no reply.

 

He learned patience. He practiced humility. By the time the leaves were falling, he looked around and realised what he needed to do.

“I need a bigger flat,” he told Mycroft. “Can you help me out? I would consider it a loan, not a gift. I’ll sign a note, if you like.”

Mycroft was looking at him as if another head had sprouted from his shoulder. “A loan?”

“Yes. I can provide security, if you wish. My Jaguar is in storage at the house in Kent. I haven’t driven it in a while, but it must still be worth something.”

“Sherlock—”

“I need more space, Mycroft! I’m acquiring more clients and my current space is not adequate. It does not inspire confidence in my abilities when clients have to pick their way through my sitting area. And my lab equipment has outgrown the tiny room where it now resides, the kitchen is too small to do experiments—”

“Of course.”

“What… what did you say?”

“I said, of course I will help you. What you say makes sense. Have you found a place?”

“I’m looking at a flat on Baker Street. It’s a bit pricey.”

“If your business is growing, as you say, that shouldn’t be a problem. The location should assist you in gaining more clients.”

“If you want me to take a flatmate to share expenses—”

“That is entirely up to you. I will not require that. Since you finished rehab a year and a half ago, you’ve stayed clean and worked hard. You have earned my trust. I will pay your rent for six months to get you started, and then we can reassess the situation.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you, Mycroft.” And he actually felt gratitude.

“My pleasure, little brother.” Mycroft gave him what was, for once, a genuine smile.

 

He found himself melancholy at times, even when he had a case to work on. Some days his mind would slip away, dwelling on the past, and he would wonder if the rest of his life was going to be like this, full of bitter regret and painful self-recrimination. He supposed he deserved it. He had a lot to atone for, and he couldn’t expect John to forgive him, ever.

Lestrade was a friend, he decided, and a person he could trust. Though he’d never had much use for friends, he was beginning to appreciate that it could be comforting to confide in another person. He invited the DI up to the new flat and made tea to go with some sandwiches Mrs Hudson, his landlady, had left him.

His favourite picture of him and John, the one where they were leaning against the Jaguar, had been framed and was on the mantelpiece of his new flat. Mycroft hadn’t said anything when he saw the photo. He had kept track of John, Sherlock knew, though he hadn’t said anything about him since Sherlock last left rehab. Perhaps he thought his younger brother was foolish to keep such a painful reminder in plain view, but Sherlock considered it a kind of penance. Looking at it kept him from forgetting. It reminded him not to give up and start using again. If he never spoke to John again, at least he was keeping the promise he’d made to him.

“You should call him,” said Lestrade. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“The worst has already happened,” he replied.

There was no other way he could see it. He had broken something that ought to have been precious to him. Now that he finally understood what he’d done, it was too late.

Lestrade smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Give it time, Sherlock.”

_Time for what?_ he thought. _Time for John to change his mind? Time for Sherlock to get over him? And if those things never happen…?_

But time was all he had left. He waited.


	11. Chemistry

December 2005

The call came early in the morning, before Sherlock was awake. He’d dozed off with a show about tattoos; now they were trying to sell him a blender that was also a juicer.

_John Watson._

“Hi, John,” he said, trying to sound calm. He’d actually fallen off the couch when he saw who was calling.

“Sherlock.”

“What’s… the occasion? Are you all right?”

For a moment, there was silence. “My sister died.”

“Oh, John. I’m sorry. How awful — what happened?”

“She drank herself to death — literally.” _Short, non-humorous laugh, a bark of disbelief._ “Alcohol poisoning. She’d broken off with her girlfriend and just kept drinking until she died.” _Deep breaths being drawn_.

“I’m so sorry, John.” _Don’t call him Bunny: that would be manipulative._ “I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. Is there anything I can do?”

“Come to Glasgow.” No hesitation.

“The funeral?”

“Yes. Please —”

He heard John’s voice catch. Not like the night he drunk-dialled Sherlock, with alcohol-induced sorrow. This time, John was actually crying.

“I’ll be on the next plane,” he assured him. “Or train. Or whatever. Text me the address and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

A shuddering sigh. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Of course. I’ll see you soon.”

 

The funeral was not long, the attendees not many — just John, Sherlock, Harry’s ex-girlfriend Clara, Clara’s new girlfriend, and a second cousin who happened to be living in Glasgow.

The priest prayed for her soul, gave a generic homily, and made the sign of the cross over her coffin. Those present had shed tears and mumbled responses. Sherlock put his arm around John when he noticed his shoulders shaking. _I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die._ John leaned into him.

The ground was frozen; Harry would be cremated in any case. _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Amen._ He was a realistic man, a chemist. He knew that all things eventually decay. The only thing that mattered was right now. _Ashes in a small box that would gather dust, reminder of a wasted life._ They stood in the vestibule of the church, awkwardly conversing with Clara and her girlfriend.

Clara gave John a hug. “Now there’s nothing to do but drink,” she said.

“Thanks, no,” John told Clara. “She wouldn’t want me fou tonight.” He turned to Sherlock. “Do you mind walking? The hotel’s just a few blocks from here.”

“My car’s a half block over. How does a drive sound?”

When they found Sherlock’s car, John just stopped in his tracks and gaped. “Oh… Oh, my, god. Sherlock, you still have the Jag!”

He grinned. “You didn’t think I’d sell it, did you?”

John walked around, examining it from all angles. “It looks almost new — you’ve been taking care of it.”

“To be honest, my parents had it covered up in the garage in Kent. I’d been going through old photos a couple months ago, feeling a bit nostalgic, and decided to take a look at it. I had to replace a few hoses and things to get it running again, but it’s in very good shape. A well-built car.”

John smiled broadly. “I loved this car. I always thought…” He stopped. “Well, let’s take it for a ride!”

“Do you want to drive?” Sherlock dangled the keys.

John gave an embarrassed grimace. “You’re not going to believe this. I don’t have a driver’s license. Never learned.”

Sherlock laughed. “Then I know what to get you for Christmas — driving lessons. Get in.”

John climbed into the passenger seat. They headed west, towards the port.

 

Sherlock was thinking, _the trouble with having an eidetic memory arises specifically from sentiment._ He pushed aside his other memories of Scotland — their trip to Stornoway, the cramped hotel, the standing stones, meeting John’s mother in Glasgow, tracking him to Edinburgh. That was the moment he feared he'd lost him.

“I love the kilt,” he said, eyeing John’s knees. “Just wondering whether you are a true Scotsman.”

John grinned. “I am. Harry was really into genealogy for a while. I think it was when she saw where her life was heading and knew it wouldn’t be a long one, she got interested in our family heritage. She bought the kilt for me. Watson tartan.” He sighed. “I’ll miss her. She was a pain in the arse, but we were kids together. We remembered the same things. I guess I always knew, though, that she would go first, and too soon.”

They drove in silence for a half an hour, not pushing the speed limit. The evening was lovely and clear and soon Sherlock pulled over where they could look out over the waterfront. The wind was sharp, so they sat in the car.

“I always felt safe,” John said. “With you. You made me feel safe. I never had that before.”

_Safe?_ That was the last word Sherlock would have chosen to describe someone like him. The idea that John could have felt _safe_ when Sherlock was essentially stalking him was absurd. _Ask_. “How did I make you feel safe?”

“You took care of me. You were so sure of yourself, didn’t let anyone tell you who to be. I felt lost when I came to Linden. Everybody else was rich, posh, and extremely bright. I was poor, plain, average — like a mutt at a dog show. You made me feel special. They all looked at me differently because you loved me.”

“You _were_ special. _Are_ special.” He hesitated. _There are no more chances to make this right, no guarantees of anything. Just say it: I still love you._ His tongue moved, but he couldn’t form the words.

John sighed. “I always expected you to be all right, you know — no matter what. I thought you were indestructible. But when I saw you in Cambridge, with that needle… god, I was scared. It shook me. My whole world fell to pieces.”

Sherlock sighed. “You trusted me, and I let you down.”

“No,” John said firmly. “I don’t blame you. You were a kid, too, with problems I knew nothing about. I had built you up into my hero; I depended on you. It was too much to put on an eighteen year old, not fair to you that I needed you so much.” John took his hand and squeezed. “I’m not sorry for loving you, but I am sorry that I expected too much. When you fell apart, so did I. But I righted myself in time. I hoped you’d done the same.”

“I did let you down,” Sherlock said. “You were young, and I was manipulative. It wasn’t until years later that I realised how wrong that was, to coerce you into—”

John shook his head. “You didn’t coerce me. Yeah, I was inexperienced, but I was anything but innocent. I’d seen plenty before I came to Linden, things a child shouldn’t have to see. That isn’t right, for a child to learn so much so soon, but I never felt used by you. I wanted you.”

He took Sherlock’s hand, squeezed it and began running his thumb back and forth on his palm. In his mind, Sherlock began to replay all the moments when he had pressured John, when his own greed and lust had prevented him from seeing anything but an innocent, yielding boy afraid to say _stop._ He’d never questioned his own perspective. He’d never known what was happening in John’s ( _funny little_ ) mind because he’d never asked, or even taken time to think about it.

And here was John, apologising to him, as if Sherlock was the victim. John, saying he had never felt coerced or manipulated or owned, that he was sorry for idolising him, holding him to an impossible, heroic standard.

“There’s something you should know,” he said. “It’s not something I tell people, but when I was seven, a child psychiatrist diagnosed me as a sociopath.”

“You’re not,” John said, frowning. “That’s bollocks — and malpractice—”

“I know that now,” he said. “But my family believed it for a long time. Over Christmas break that year, my brother warned me. He said that I didn’t love you, that I was using you—”

“How would he know?” John scoffed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Because he’s Mycroft. His mission has always been to make sure I understood that I was a sociopath — unworthy of friends, incapable of love.”

“Sherlock, you were still a kid when we met. I was not a victim. I was a willing participant. That first time, in the shower, when I turned and saw you watching me — I’ve never wanted anything more than I wanted you at that moment. And the first time we had sex, I was nervous, sure, but I wanted you.”

“You said _no._ I should have stopped.”

“I said _wait._ I didn’t want you to stop. I just needed you to slow down.”

“And I didn’t. I… I...”

John shook his head. “No. I gave consent. I was old enough to say _yes._ And I did. I could have pushed you off me, you know. Gymnasts are very strong.” He looked puzzled. “Have you been thinking all these years that you… raped me or something?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. “I always liked it when you struggled. Much later, when I thought about it, I started to wonder if I was a sociopath. I wondered if I had abused you. When you came back the first time, I saw that you were still in school, and I was glad that I hadn’t damaged you. I worried about that for years, you know, that all the things you planned would be ruined because of what I’d done to you.”

“You’re not a sociopath!” John huffed. “They were wrong.”

He nodded. “I understand that now. But I wasn’t a good person. Seeing you years later — you seemed so strong, so focused. You’d gone on with your life and figured it all out. I was relieved. And there was I, still in the same state you’d left me in. That embarrassed me, for you to see what I was.”

John shook his head. “But Sherlock, you’d figured out a lot by then, too. You’d gone back to school, and traveled, and were putting together a life. I just caught you when you’d slipped.”

He smiled grimly. “It seems like you’ve been there every time I’ve slipped. The third time was horrible. I don’t blame you for thinking I’m a washout.”

“I don’t think that.” He smiled at Sherlock. “And it’s not as if I’m perfect. I have a lot of unhealthy ways of coping — none of which are your fault, by the way. I have to lay that on my parents, at least in part. They might have loved one another at one point, but they didn’t know much about raising children. I always had to figure things out myself, and mostly did a shite job of it. Since leaving Linden, I’ve been in jail twice, for public intoxication and fighting. That’s expected of uni students, I guess, practically a rite of passage, but I saw my father coming out in me and hated it. From my mum I learned avoidance. After you, I never had healthy relationships — romantic, I mean. I couldn’t get close to anyone. By the time I got to the third date, I was already looking for the door. Avoiding commitment by any means possible.”

“Our relationship wasn’t healthy, John. It’s not healthy to write _Property of Sherlock Holmes_ on your boyfriend’s backside. A bit possessive, wouldn’t you say?”

John laughed out loud. “Oh, god — I loved it. It was weird, but romantic. I wanted to walk around naked so people could see it. You offered to have me tattooed — I didn’t need a tattoo, though, for people to see that I belonged to you. I loved being yours.”

“You weren’t property. It was wrong to treat you that way.”

John sighed fondly. “We were kids. Kids do stupid things. You chose me, and I felt loved. It was symbolic ownership — not like you had a collar and leash on me.”

“Hm. I thought about a collar. I think the school had rules about that sort of thing, though.”

“I suppose they did,” John said, giggling. “Stupid rules.”

Sherlock gathered his courage. “John. Several years ago you said to me, _whatever we end up with is more than we have now._ I want to know, what do we have now? What is this?” He gestured between them. “Is this anything?”

John rubbed the back of his neck. _Thinking gesture._ “For the last few years, since we reconnected, I’ve been telling myself, _no, it could never work._ I’ve tried focusing on my studies and my work, and I’ve tried dating other people. I flirt with women and lose interest before I even ask them out. I go out to pub with mates and joke about never meeting the right person. I have plenty of friends, but there’s nobody I’ve met in the last ten years who I would call a best mate. And yet, when I got the call about my sister, I knew right away that you were the person I needed. Even after months of not speaking to you or seeing you or even a bloody text, I thought of you. I had to hear your voice. What does that tell you?”

“Honestly, I was surprised,” he said. “I thought I’d had my last chance with you.” He thought about how this sounded. _Manipulative, as if he could somehow insinuate himself back in each time John pushed him away._ “The last time we talked, I was very deliberate in stepping away from you. I felt I’d tried your patience so often that I needed to fix myself before…” He sighed. “Instead of fixing myself for you, so you would take me back, I wanted to do it for me. I wanted to be worthy of you, even if you didn’t want me.”

“I’m glad,” John said. “I was thinking along the same line, in my own life. I had a lot of growing up to do in 1996.” He smiled. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we’d gone off to uni together, or if we’d met later, at uni or… Maybe we could have gone through all of this together, but maybe we couldn’t have. Maybe we met too soon or at the wrong time, under the wrong circumstances. I’m not saying I believe in soulmates, not at all. You could spend your entire life waiting for the person who completes you, who fixes everything that’s wrong about you…”

Sherlock grunted. “Hypothesis Contrary to Fact: none of these _what ifs_ happened, so it’s all pointless speculation. We will never know what would have happened. We did, in fact, meet at a specific time and place. We’re the people we are now because of many things — our families, our upbringing, our experiences, and our mistakes. And, in part, because of each other.”

“Yes,” John said softly. “You are a part of who I am. I cannot deny that. If we hadn’t met, I’d be a different person.” He laughed. “I’d probably be three-times divorced by now.”

“Three times divorced?”

“You ruined me for other lovers, you git. I would have married the first girl who said she loved me and then divorced her a year later when I figured out that we were all wrong for one another. Then I would have done it again. And at least one more time before I figured it out.” He closed his eyes. “Maybe I would never have figured it out.”

“We did meet, though,” said Sherlock. “And we were, in a way, all wrong for one another.”

Smiling, John shook his head. “We weren’t. We loved each other and did stupid things and broke up for reasons beyond our control. It was too soon, we were too young — I don’t know…”

Sherlock gazed across the water. The sun had set an hour ago, but the moon had risen and was reflecting on the loch, its light a pale path leading from horizon to shore. “That was ten years ago.”

“True,” said John.

_Speculating about the past might be pointless_ , Sherlock thought, _but the future is up for grabs. We can walk away from each other now, assuming that our past dictates the future, or we can make something different happen now._

“I wonder,” he said, “what if we were meeting now, for the very first time? What if this was our first date? How would we feel about this, about us? Can I expect to hear from you, or is this all we will ever have — an evening as old friends, reminiscing?” He spoke casually, but fear gripped his heart, which was hammering as if it wanted to escape.

“So, it’s my move again?” John asked, smiling sideways at him.

“You called me, and I came because I love you. Even if this is all there is, I’m glad we saw each other. I want your love, but I would be honoured to have your friendship.”

John was silent for a long time. Sherlock waited. John needed to think, and perhaps that was good. He needed to chose Sherlock, not simply to be chosen.

“It’s a bit soon,” he said at last. “But I think the time is right. We’ve just met (again) and, since I initiated this date — by the way, a funeral is not good venue for a first date. Terrible idea. I apologise for that. I should have picked something more romantic…”

“This is romantic,” said Sherlock. “Moonlight, water, my old Jaguar. What could be more conducive to romance?”

John sighed and took Sherlock’s hand in his once more, lacing their fingers together. “I’ve never had a better mate than you. I’ve never loved anyone more than I love you.” He smiled. “I would like another date with you. If you’re amenable, that is.”

“I am.” Sherlock took a breath to steady himself. “I’m optimistic. Now, is it too soon to ask for a kiss?”

 

They drove back to the little hotel where they were registered and found that the one room had one bed. Since John had arranged for the room, Sherlock wondered what he had expected. Afraid to assume, he decided to play it light, just in case he had misunderstood his intent.

“I’ll have you know that I’m not so easy, John Watson,” said Sherlock. “If you expect me to get in that bed with you, I require a commitment of at least three dates.”

John was already removing his kilt, revealing that he was, indeed, a true Scotsman. A very excited Scotsman, judging by the state of his half-erect cock. “Bloody hell. I’ll get your name tattooed on my arse if you let me rip that suit off of you and have my way.”

“Done.” Sherlock allowed John to stand before him, naked, and remove his jacket, unbutton every shirt button, and unzip his trousers, tossing each item on the chair. “I’m taking that as a promise, Bunny.”

John was kissing his way down Sherlock’s chest. “What, a tattoo? By the way, I’ve always loved it when you call me _Bunny._ Nobody even calls me _Rabbit_ anymore, which tells you how far I’ve fallen since Linden. Not even a bloody nickname.”

“All right, Bunny. Stop talking and let’s make love.”

 

They lay in the hotel bed, all tangled up, spent. Sherlock had his head on John’s chest, listening to his heart, feeling the rise and fall of his lungs. His mind was quiet, no racing thoughts or deductions or cravings. _This is not a fantasy. This is really John Watson. Maybe this time I’ll get it right._

“When did you know that you loved me?” John asked. “You never said it, but I always knew you did.”

Sherlock tightened his arms around John. “I'm a bit slow. I loved you for weeks before I understood. It was… that night. In Stornoway. When I forced you…” He sighed. “I didn’t realise until then. This isn’t very romantic to say, but my goal up until then had been… simply to have you. To fuck you.” He grimaced. “I didn’t expect it to mean more… but that’s the moment when I knew.”

What he’d known was difficult to explain. He’d thought he was in control, that he’d owned John — and had suddenly realised that he wasn’t, he didn’t. He was undone, completely powerless. A pile of rubble after the wrecking ball has hit. An empty beach after the tsunami. John Watson — little idiot, pretty fool, innocent boy — now owned _him_. He’d felt his heart twist, not in protest, but recognising its new owner, knowing that John now held it in his hands. And he was terrified to suddenly see that he no longer knew how to keep him. _What if he leaves me? I can’t let him know…_

Maybe he’d sabotaged himself, hoping to put off the inevitable.

He sighed and stroked John’s belly. “I wish I’d said it then. It might have cleared up a lot of things.”

“I never doubted your love,” John said. “I thought those words every time I looked at you. I was just afraid to say it.”

“Why?”

“You were my first love, and I was an idiot. I didn’t know if that was something boys said to one another. And if I said it, I wasn’t sure how you would react. I didn’t want to ruin everything. I thought maybe I was just an experiment.”

“I said that to you, the first time…”

John kissed his forehead. “Yeah, you did. And I offered you more data. What does that tell you?”

“It tells me that we’re scientists,” he said.

“Scientists?” John giggled.

“Of course we are. We’ve discovered a new compound made up of two elements. There’s already a Holmium. Atomic number 67. Discovered in 1878 by Swedish chemist Per Theodor Cleve. Not named after my family of course, but in honour of _Holmia_ , the Latin name of Stockholm.”

John smiled. “I suppose that you are a _rare_ element?”

“I believe you mean _rare earth element,_ John. At any rate, let’s call you Watsonium.”

“Atomic number?” John asked.

“Hypothetical, therefore incalculable. Just as you yourself are indescribable, undefinable…”

“And sexy.”

“Of course. The sexiest element ever discovered. I’ll make sure the Wikipedia article mentions that. At any rate, we’re exploring the properties of this compound. Now, Holmium is quite reactive, and is not found in nature uncombined with other elements, but it bonds readily with Watsonium, which is quite stable, as predicted by the island of stability hypothesis. The resulting compound is quite lovely.”

John arched an eyebrow at him. “That sounds element-ary. I hope we have a strong _bond._ ”

“Clearly, we have an _attraction_. Are we going to see how far we can stretch this metaphor?”

“One more. Please tell me we’re not radioactive.”

“You know, radiation is just the transmission of energy.”

John huffed. “Only you could make love sound like chemistry.”

“Love _is_ chemistry, John,” he said. “Chemistry is the most basic reality. It’s all the elements that make up the entire universe. Why shouldn’t we be part of that reality?”

“Why, indeed,” John said, ruffling Sherlock’s curls. “So, how shall our scientific method proceed?”

“I love you, John. If you love me, we can consider our hypothesis tested and proven. Or perhaps we need further testing, to see how volatile this compound really is?”

John started giggling. “Safety goggles,” he snorted. “We’ll need hazard gear to have sex.”

“I’m not worried,” replied Sherlock, smiling into John’s chest. And for the first time, he really wasn’t.


	12. Epilogue: Home

August 2009

After three years, John was coming home. Wounded, but in one piece.

Saying goodbye had been hard, very hard, after just six months together, living as a couple. But he knew not to hold John back. This was what he’d wanted for years, to be a soldier and save lives.

He’d been home on leave just once, in 2007.

Now he was returning a hero, with medals for lives he’d saved, commendations for bravery. He’d been wounded, invalided out early, but he would heal.

The flat on Baker Street was ready. All floor hazards had been removed, all disgusting experiments disposed of properly. John’s jumpers had been aired out, his desk cleared off. Mrs Hudson had dusted and made up their bed, and had baked the biscuits she knew John liked.

Sherlock read up on PTSD, thought about how he could help his partner adapt to civilian life with a limp and a shoulder that might end his surgical career. It would require sensitivity, something Sherlock knew he lacked, and love, which he had in abundance. John would need some therapy, both physical and talking. Sherlock would make sure he got it.

Lestrade nodded when he’d told him he wouldn’t be available for consultation for a few weeks. “Just take care of your boy,” he’d said.

Mycroft flew him to Landstuhl, where they’d brought John back from the infection that had nearly claimed his life. Sherlock had made his way through all the well-meaning professionals who needed to explain John’s limitations. He’d made friends with the doctors and nurses who tended John, let them know, _This is my husband._

They’d signed the papers at the registrar’s office in 2006, just before John left. It was a marriage, insofar as law allowed it. No one could keep him out of a hospital room or an ambulance. He would tell doctors and nurses what his husband needed, what he wanted. He wore a ring that matched John’s, a symbol of their intention to stay together.

As he went down the hall towards John’s room, he was thankful that they had finally figured it out. It hadn’t happened the way he had expected fifteen years earlier, but _whatever we end up with_ had turned into _not giving up_ , which in turn had become _forever after_.

“Hello, love,” he said, smiling down at John. “They said you’re to be released tomorrow.”

“Good,” John sighed. “I’ve missed you. And I can’t wait to be home.”

 

There were a lot of days after that day which were difficult. John was weak and depressed and cried sometimes, remembering all that had happened, the lives lost. Sherlock was sad and hopeful and always remembered what John had sacrificed, what John had experienced, and how much he loved him.

Mrs Hudson was overjoyed to see John return in one piece, chided Sherlock to be careful of his husband, remember what a lovely man he was, and make sure he ate enough to fill out the clothing he’d left behind. “He’s a good man,” she informed Sherlock. “Take care of him.”

He made sure John went to his physio appointments and his counselling sessions. He held him as he slept each night, waiting for the tremors and the nightmares. He told him every day that he loved him.

Lestrade came by every now and then, usually bringing cases he hoped Sherlock would solve, but also to observe John, understand his previously unknown contribution to the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes.

“You’re not what I expected,” he told John one day, as he tagged after him in physio.

“What did you expect?” John said, gritting his teeth and forcing his arm through the range of motions.

Lestrade gave an embarrassed laugh. “I heard him on the phone with you. He called you _Bunny_ , and I thought — well, I didn’t expect Captain Watson. You’re solid, to be sure. Exactly what Sherlock needs. But the way he takes care of you — it’s something I never expected to see. And, truth be told, I’m glad.”

“This is how we began,” John said, mopping the sweat from his forehead. “He always took care of me. I leaned on him a lot. I only hope that now, he can lean on me as well.”

“You were young. I saw the pictures. Did you expect to be together, all this time later?”

“At the time? It was hard to imagine any future without him.”

Lestrade stood, smiling. “Well, I’m happy for you both. He’s a great man, and a good one, too.”

John smiled. “He’s an insane bugger. And I love him.”

 

29 January 2010

Sherlock had been beating the corpse for ten minutes. It was an experiment, he told Molly. It could prove a man’s alibi, his innocence. As the pathology lab assistant, she was pushing the limits of her authority letting him in the lab, but it was hard to say no to Sherlock. His experiments were always interesting, to say the least. In the six months she’d been at the lab, he would appear suddenly, ask for a favour, and then disappear. He was either a hovering presence or absolutely absent.

She’d tried, cautiously, to find out more about him — without going so far as actually flirting. The man was gorgeous, but he did wear a wedding band.

That Sherlock was married didn’t surprise her. Many of the men she was attracted to turned out to be married. In the long string of men she’d dated, not one had turned out to be simply a nice, normal (straight) guy. Eighteen dates in the past year, she’d calculated, most of them the first and last for a particular man. All of them only wanted one thing. She knew that nice men didn’t push for sex on the first date. She knew that having sex on the second date didn’t guarantee he would call for a third date. She knew that nice girls didn’t give it away. But she was thirty-one and had never had a real boyfriend. Just dates.

He never talked about his wife, but that didn’t surprise her either. It gave her just a tiny bit of hope. As much as she hated being the _other woman_ , she also hated being alone. And Sherlock was attractive enough that she would have willingly been his other woman. But as uncannily observant as he was, he never seemed to pick up her little hints.

“I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee…”

“Black, two sugars.” He did not look up from the microscope.

She sighed and resigned herself to fetching him some coffee. At least she might get a _thank you._ The lipstick had gotten her nothing.

Before she could push herself off her stool, there were visitors at the door. Mike Stamford she knew; he was an anatomy instructor and a friend of Sherlock’s. The other man she hadn’t seen before. He was a short man, about her height, five-six. Blond, blue-eyed, thin. He wore a dark green jacket over a check shirt and blue jeans, carried a cane, walked with an obvious limp.

“Sherlock,” said Mike, grinning broadly. “I just ran into an old friend.”

Sherlock looked up at the blond man, smiling. “How do you feel about the violin?”

Smiling back, the man replied, “I’m quite fond of the violin. Of course, it depends on who’s playing it.”

They exchanged a quiet smile.

“You’ve seen Dr Bancroft,” Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. “The news about your shoulder was not good.”

“Physical therapy might increase my range of motion, but it looks like my surgical career is over.” He noticed Molly staring at him. “Hello.” He held out his right hand. “Since my husband’s too rude to introduce us, I’ll introduce myself. John Watson. I’m the better half of this one.” He smiled and jerked his head at Sherlock.

She took his hand. Small, she noted — a surgeon’s hand. “Molly Hooper.” Matching rings. _Why didn’t I see this coming? Both married_ and _gay._

“You _are_ my better half.” Sherlock was looking at his husband with unabashed affection. “I’m just happy to have you back.”

“You’re a doctor?” she asked.

He nodded. “RAMC. Recently returned from Afghanistan.”

“You were wounded?”

“Left shoulder.”

“And your leg too?”

“Psychosomatic,” said Sherlock. At John’s pointed look, he added, “Ah. I wasn’t supposed to say that. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of, John. PTSD causes many psychosomatic symptoms. Nightmares, for example, which you’ve had nearly every night since your return. And—”

“Enough, love,” John said, rolling his eyes. “Let’s leave a bit of mystery for next time.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, planting a kiss on his forehead. “I have no filter.”

Mike took his leave. “John, I’ll buy you that pint sometime soon.”

“Ta, Mike.”

“So. Where did you two meet?” Molly asked looking at the two men.

“Long story,” said John. “Fifteen years in the making.”

“Actually,” said Sherlock, “it feels as if we just met. One of those _what if_ moments.”

“And my answer is still the same,” said John. “All the data is in, and my answer is _Yes_.”


End file.
